


Black and Blue

by Last_Chance_Anna



Series: STAY [11]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, At Least In MY World, Banter Between The Boys, Copious Kisses, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt Tony Stark, If You've Been Following This Series You Already Know, M/M, Mild Sexy-times, Protective Avengers, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Team as Family, The Award for The Baddest Bad Guy Goes To..., Tony Stark Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Last_Chance_Anna/pseuds/Last_Chance_Anna
Summary: Continuing the events of the "STAY" series.  Tony and Steve are very much a couple.  They are very much in love. Things are good...and then things turn a corner.  Like they do.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Clint Barton & Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark & Thor, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark & Sir Purr, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Wanda Maximoff & Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Series: STAY [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1543645
Comments: 94
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, Back again. Can't seem to stay away. I keep thinking I'm done, and then I think of some other loose end that needs a good tying-up. If you're tired of these guys, sorry :( But, here we go...

Tony’s first inkling something was wrong came when Steve yelled at him for coming home late.

Sure, it was partly his fault for being late, but it was bowling night, and Jeff and Ray were having a tiff over whether or not to get new shirts for the upcoming tournament. Jeff thought the old ones were fine. Ray wanted new ones. The old ones looked like shit, he said. 

Tony offered to buy the new ones Ray wanted and Jeff said a hard “No”. He said Tony spent too much on them already. Ray agreed with that, and thought they could have some kind of fundraiser for the new ones. Tony thought that might be kind of fun.

“I mean, I could strip down to ass-crack cut-off jeans and a wet t-shirt if you wanted to do a car wash or something like they do in the movies,” Tony offered, and both Ray and Jeff cackled. “ _Or_ ,” Tony went on, feeding off their laughter, “we could get _Steve_ to do it. God, we’d have the money in like thirty seconds.”

The three of them laughed some more, beer flowing as one or another of them called for another round, while they tried to one-up each other with outlandish money-making schemes.

By the time they got down to the kissing booth where people would pay to kiss one of the team anywhere except the mouth, the fee getting higher the lower they went on the body--this came from a furiously blushing Jeff, sending Tony and Ray into an utter storm of teenage-style giggles--they finally realized it was now 11:13 pm.

“Oh, shit,” Tony said. “I’ve got to go. I promised Steve dinner.”

“Make sure you ask him about those cut-off jeans,” Ray said, and Tony winked. 

“The hardest part will be getting him out of them again. He’s pretty proud of that ass,” he said, and he left on their laughter.

Tony jumped into the ‘Cuda, keyed the engine, and sped toward home. He was supposed to bring pizza, but this was a small town and it was a Tuesday night. Even the most die-hard place closed at ten. He felt bad, but he was sure it would be fine. Steve would understand.

When he got home, Tony got out of the car, put his most contrite face on, and went inside. “Hi, baby,” he said, tossing his keys into the bowl by the door.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Steve snapped.

Tony held onto his temper. He _was_ late, after all. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We went out for a drink after practice. I should have called.”

“ _Yeah_ , you should have.” He was sitting at the table, books, and notebooks, and pencils surrounding him. The old, battered laptop he refused to give up sat open. It looked like he’d been typing an essay.

A complicated jumble of feelings passed over Tony seeing him sitting there like that. Guilt for being late, pride for how hard Steve had worked--was working--in his classes, a little leftover humor from the evening out with his friends, and of course an intense, bone-deep, _soul_ -deep love.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Where’s the pizza?”

Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Steve shook his head. “Goddamnit, Tony,” he muttered. “I deliberately didn’t make anything because you said you’d bring dinner.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve been sitting here for two hours waiting for you.”

“You could have called me,” Tony suggested, and Steve bit his lip. His fingers clenched on the pencil he was holding, and it snapped in half. The sound was very loud. 

Steve looked down at the pieces and uncurled his fingers. They rolled out of his fist and onto the table. The fight drained out of him, Tony could see it happening, and his guilt intensified. 

“Maybe you’re right,” Steve said. “Maybe I should have called you.”

“No,” Tony said, and went to him. “No, baby. No. I’m sorry. This is all me.” He put his arms around Steve’s neck and kissed his cheek. Steve sat still, not moving, a troubled look on his face. Tony kissed him again. “I’m sorry.” Again. “Forgive me, ‘kay?” Again. Again. “Please, baby? Please forgive me?” He kissed him again and again, covering his face and necks with kisses until Steve finally smiled.

Steve gave him a little shove. “Get off me,” he said.

“Not until you forgive me,” Tony said, continuing his onslaught.

Steve grabbed him roughly and pulled him onto his lap. “If you’re gonna kiss me, just kiss me,” he said. 

Tony pulled back a little, staying just out of reach of Steve’s questing lips. “Am I forgiven?” he asked, then teased Steve’s lower lip with a flick of his tongue.

Steve ran his hands up Tony’s sides and gave him a heated look. “Will you do that thing I like?” he whispered.

“You mean…” Tony said, then leaned in and whispered intently into Steve’s ear. 

Steve blushed as Tony filled his ear with dirty words. When he pulled away, Steve’s lips curved upwards. “I meant doing the dishes,” he said. “But I wouldn’t say no to that, either.”

Tony kissed him. “My pleasure. Believe me.”

Steve smiled, but his eyes were dark. Faraway. 

“I really am sorry,” Tony said, and ran his hand through Steve’s soft blond hair. It was a win-win, that gesture. Tony liked doing it, and Steve liked him doing it. He’d never said so, but his eyes always fluttered closed and his body eased when Tony did it. It happened just that way now. He wrapped his big arms around Tony, sunk his head onto his chest, and held him. He didn’t say anything. Just held him.

“Steve?”

“It’s okay, Tony.”

“Are you alright?”

Steve nodded against his chest.

“You’re not mad at me? I promise I won’t do it again.”

Steve tipped his head and kissed Tony’s neck. “I’m not mad.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Faint worry threaded its way through his heat, but Tony let it go. He squeezed Steve tight, then stood up. “I’ll make you something since I forgot the pizza.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Grilled cheese okay?”

Steve sighed, a sound of pure contentment, and Tony’s worry went away. “That sounds great, Tony.”

Tony got to work.

\---

A couple days later, Tony woke up to an empty bed.

That wasn’t new, but the clock said 2:45, and _that_ was a little new. Steve didn’t usually get up until 5:30 to get ready for his 6:00 run. Tony rubbed his eyes. The sheets around him weren’t straight, but they weren’t a jumbled-up mess like they were when Steve had a nightmare, either. Plus, Tony had been right here. If Steve had a nightmare, Tony knew it.

“Baby?” he called, but the light was off in the bathroom, the door hanging open.

Tony lay in bed for a minute, listening hard for any indication of where Steve was, but heard nothing. _He’s fine_ , he thought. _Stop being so paranoid. Go back to sleep._ It was good advice. Good, practical, solid advice.

So thinking, he got out of bed and went to find Steve.

Sir Purr was lounging in his cat bed by the door. Steve absolutely refused to let him sleep in their bed, and Tony was smart enough to let him have his way on that point. Besides, Sir Purr seemed to enjoy having his own space. Maybe because he was an old tom who had never shared a bed before. Tony was an old tom too, but he adored sharing a bed. He supposed he and his cat-child couldn’t be in sync on every point.

He reached down and pet the cat as he passed. Sir Purr yawned and stretched. Tony was utterly charmed. He always was, by everything the cat did. “Have you seen daddy?” he asked. “Did he come through here?”

Sir Purr didn’t answer, but he seemed to glance behind him, and Tony looked through the window in the back door and saw Steve. He was standing at the railing, leaning against it, staring down at the lake.

“Thanks, Sir Purr,” Tony said, and opened the door. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing out here?”

Steve shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

An acrid scent reached Tony’s nose, and in the darkness, a glowing ember rose, flared briefly, then lowered again.

Tony sputtered, shocked-- _scandalized_ \--by what he had just seen. He came forward. “Steven Grant Rogers, are you _smoking_?”

Steve lifted the cigarette, looked at it dully, then lowered it again. “Yeah.”

Tony sputtered some more.

“It’s no big deal,” Steve said slowly. “I used to smoke sometimes before the ice. Everybody did. It’s fine.”

Tony finally found his voice. “It’s not _fine_ , Steve. What the fuck?”

“It’s relaxing,” Steve said. His voice was soft, mellow, like molasses. He looked at the cigarette again, took another long drag, and breathed out a plume of smoke. “I don’t know if it’s the nicotine, or the repetitive motions. Or maybe it’s just the deep breathing.” He shrugged, just a slow lift of his shoulders, then chuckled a little in the darkness. “It’s kind of like yoga.”

“Yeah, except this will kill you,” Tony said.

Steve cocked an eyebrow at him. It was amused, and it pissed Tony off. “Are you telling me you’ve never smoked before, Stark?”

Tony stalked forward. His mind was a whirlwind. If anyone had ever told him he’d be having this conversation, he would have laughed in their face. “No. I’m not telling you that. But I am telling you I was smart enough to stop.”

Steve laughed again, quiet and dark. “Don’t be too hard on me. It’s only my second one in what? Eighty years, or so?”

“So, you just woke up to a big old hankering for a lungful of cancer? Is that it?”

“The chances of me getting cancer are pretty small.”

“Not. The point. Steve.”

Steve flicked ash over the railing. “Then what is the point?”

Tony wanted to grab him and shake him, but instead, he put his hand on Steve’s back. Gently. He moved his thumb in little, soothing arcs. “I don’t like it,” he whispered, and Steve turned his head to meet his eye. The humor was gone. Now he looked sad, sadness touched with worry. Tony edged closer. “Will you please put it out?”

Steve immediately stubbed it out on the railing, grinding the filter against the wood. “Okay,” he said.

Tony cupped his cheek with the hand not on his back. Steve closed his eyes, leaning into Tony’s touch. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Steve shook his head without opening his eyes. “Nothing,” he said. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

“You’ve been acting a little weird lately.”

“I’m fine,” Steve said, and rubbed his cheek into Tony’s palm. “I’m just tired. Finals and-and stuff.”

“Oh, baby,” Tony said, and eased his arms around his best guy. Steve leaned against him, taking in the love and comfort Tony wanted so desperately to give him. Tony had been accused more than once--more times than he cared to remember, actually--of being a stingy lover. Cold-hearted. Cruel, even. But, with Steve, he just wanted to give and give, give until it hurt, give until he bled. Sometimes, when Steve was lying next to him in bed, Tony would look at him and wonder if he would ever be able to give enough. Or if he could give too much. But then Steve would open his eyes and look at him, and Tony would realize how ridiculous that was. Everything he gave, Steve returned. Neither of them would ever empty out because they kept replenishing each other.

“You’ve been working so hard,” Tony said, kissing his temple. “I’m so proud of you.”

“It’s nothing,” Steve said against his shoulder. “It’s just a couple of stupid classes. You’re saving the _world_ , Tony. Every time I think of that, I-” he huffed out a tiny laugh, “-I want to fucking explode. People don’t know. They don’t know how much you do. How much you’ve _always_ done, and I just want to scream it out, you know? But sometimes, I…I don’t think anyone would listen. I don’t think they want to hear. I don’t think they want to know.”

Tony kissed him again. “Don’t be so cynical,” he said. “People care, baby. They do.”

“Some do,” Steve agreed, and tightened his arms around Tony’s middle.

“Besides, all I really care about is you,” Tony said, and now he did shake him a little. “And it’s not just ‘a couple stupid classes’. What you’re doing, Steve...God, it’s amazing. It literally amazes me.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m not going to stop it. I’m never going to stop it.”

Steve laughed. “At least do it quieter, then, ‘kay? I don’t want to wake the neighbors.”

“I want to wake the neighbors. I want to wake the whole damn town.”

“How ‘bout you just come inside with me instead, okay?”

Tony ran his fingers through Steve’s hair again. “Do you think you can sleep now?”

“Yes.” Steve lifted his head and looked at Tony shyly. “If you’ll be the big spoon?”

Tony let out a breath, raising an eyebrow. Steve didn't ask for that very often, and Tony craved it when he did, so he would say yes, no matter what. Of course, he would. He would _always_ say yes, but he wanted something in return this time. “You’re never going to smoke again, right?”

Steve nodded solemnly. “Right.”

“Then I’d love to be the big spoon.”

\---

Sam called Tony Friday afternoon.

“Did you and Steve have a fight?” No greeting. No preamble. Just that.

Tony was sitting in his office at Stark Industries. He didn’t do full-time there anymore, but once or twice a week, he came in, let Pepper brief him, took her to lunch, went over whatever paperwork he had, then went home and had Steve fuck him into oblivion. He needed it after his SI days. Sometimes he wondered what he’d done before he’d had Steve to help him relax, and then he remembered exactly what he did. This was so much better.

“Well, hello to you, too,” he said, switching the phone to his other ear.

Sam’s voice was laced with concern, but it was firm. “Sorry, Tony, but did you? He came over here today, and there’s something wrong.”

Tony nodded. He knew Steve had been on edge for a week. He spilled his cereal yesterday morning and swore colorfully and loudly for ten solid minutes. Tony had to leave the table and hide in the bathroom after Steve got to “Fuck you, Captain fucking Crunch. Christ, I hate you.” He stood against the door, smothering his laughter in his fist. He didn’t want Steve to think he was laughing at him. He wasn’t. Not really. It was just the situation.

Eighty percent, the situation.

When he came back to the table, Steve had it mostly cleaned up and looked more in control. Tony helped him finish up.

“Are you okay?” Steve asked him.

Tony nodded. “Yeah, sorry. Just a little indigestion. Are _you_ okay?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry I spilled...and yelled. I didn’t mean to.”

Tony kissed him. “It’s okay, baby. I hate Captain Crunch, too. That guy’s a dick.”

Steve laughed and it was okay, but Tony knew what Sam meant. There was something off.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he told Sam. “Just our usual stuff. Nothing serious. Why? What did he say?”

“The same thing you just said. I just couldn’t think of what else would make him act so strange.”

“Yeah, it is usually my fault, isn’t it?”

“Hey, don’t say it like that,” Sam said. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s not what I meant either,” Tony said. “In spite of how it sounded.” He drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking. He cast his mind back over the last week or so, trying to think of something that could have happened, and came up with nothing. Just a handful of times Steve had acted strangely, but they all seemed like effect, not cause.

“I don’t know, Sam,” he said. “But, you’re right. He’s been weird. I’ve been trying to talk to him, but you know how he can be sometimes. If I push too hard, he’ll shut down.” Tony spun a pen on top of his desk, his fingers searching for something to do to keep themselves occupied. “I don’t want him to shut down. That’s never a good thing.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I just need to tread carefully. He’ll tell me, he always does, he just needs to do it in his own time. His own way.”

Sam sighed. “I guess. Look, call me if you need me. I told him too, but whatever he needs, you call me. Okay?”

“I will.”

“And take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

Tony’s chest felt a little warmer. _This guy…_

\---

Tony brought dinner in from the city. Real New York pizza and hot dogs from his favorite street vendor outside the office. It wouldn’t be the same, heated up in the oven, but it would still be good. A little taste of home for his Brooklyn boy.

Steve usually got home from his last afternoon class by four. Sometimes if he had a study group after, he’d be home at six. Tony looked at his watch, saw it was almost seven-thirty, and texted him. _Honey, I’m home. Where are you?_

What had he been doing in the city today, anyway? Tony wondered. He only had two classes on Friday, one at eight-thirty am, and one at one forty-five pm. There wasn’t enough time to get to New York and back in between them, so he’d skipped at least one, and _that_ was definitely weird. Steve didn’t skip classes. It was so far out of character, Tony could not even wrap his head around it.

He texted him again.

_Hey, where are you? I’m officially worried. Call me._

He _was_ worried. Wanda had called him on the way home and said Steve hadn't gotten in touch with her all week. Every time she called him, it went to voicemail. She was scared. Was everything okay? Tony didn't know what to say. He lied and said everything was fine. Of course, he's fine, sweetie, he's just fine.

Tony didn't think he was fine.

He wanted a shower, but was afraid Steve would call while he was doing it, so, instead, he just changed his clothes, checked his phone then went out onto the deck.

The stars were shining down, bright in the darkness. Tony had been afraid when they moved out here, that he wouldn’t be able to be out here alone after dark. Not after Titan. Not with all those stars. But, actually, he found it quite peaceful.

He sat in his chair and called Steve. It went to voicemail. “Steve. I need you to call me. It’s eight o’clock. I’m scared. This is scary. Please call me.”

He knew he was being a hypocrite. He’d stayed out until almost midnight only a few days ago, but he couldn’t help it. Steve could stay out late if he wanted, but he had to say something. He had to tell Tony _something_ \--

Tony’s phone dinged in his hand. Steve. Texting him.

_I’m fine. Be home later._

Tony let out a breath. He was still scared, but even those five little words shut the panic-rat back up in its cage. However, now the pissed-off monkey that sometimes rattled _its_ cage door in his head started doing it now. _Be home later?_ That’s all he got? After the last week of either yelling, silence, or fucking _smoking_ , all he got was _Be home later?_

Tony started typing out a long text filled with angry, pissed-off-monkey words, but halfway through, changed his mind. He erased it all, typed eight letters, then sat his phone down.

Steve texted back a moment later.

_I love you, too, Tony. So much. I’ll be home soon. I’m sorry._

Tony kicked his feet up on the railing and looked up at the stars. They seemed closer here than they did in the city. Bigger. Brighter. Strange to think he’d been among them once. Strange to think he’d stood atop one. Strange how things that seemed so untouchable could one day rest in the palm of your hand. But how did you keep it? Hamlet could go fuck himself with that “To be or not to be” shit. How did you keep the untouchable thing you now held? _That_ was the fucking question.

Tony held his hands up in front of his face. They had been dirtied with the dust of Peter Parker’s deteriorating body once. He hadn’t been able to hold onto Peter. He’d tried. And when he tried, Peter had crumbled in his fingers. Would that happen to Steve too? The thought turned him cold, and although the night was warm, Tony Stark shivered.

  
He awoke later to a soft warmth covering him and the menthol scent of Steve’s aftershave. Good, old Skin Bracer. Tony didn’t know what he’d do if they ever stopped making it. Buy out the company, he supposed. Force them to continue manufacturing it. Or maybe just buy Steve cases and cases of the stuff. Enough to last him through this lifetime and well into the next. Would Steve still smell the same in that next life? Tony didn’t know. He wondered if God would accept a bribe so that menthol fragrance could live near him for all of forever.

Tony shifted a little, breathed in, smelling warm leather mixed with Steve’s aftershave. He cracked an eyelid and looked down. Steve’s jacket lay over his chest and arms, enveloping him in Steve’s warmth.

He turned his head. Steve was sitting beside him with Sir Purr on his lap. He was stroking his big hand over the cat’s sides and back. “You’re a good cat,” Steve murmured so softly Tony could barely hear him. “Aren’t you?”

Sir Purr bumped his forehead against Steve’s chin, purring his rusty purr, saying in his own way, “Why, yes, Captain Rogers. I _am_ a good cat.”

Tony reached out and scratched behind Sir Purr’s ear. The cat turned his head into it. The purring intensified. “Glad you two are getting along,” Tony said.

Steve smiled his little half-smile. “He’s not so bad, I guess.”

“You’re not so bad, either, big guy.”

“You don’t have to say that, Tony,” Steve said. “I know how I’ve been acting.”

Tony pulled Steve’s arm toward him, and pressed his face into the solid muscle of his shoulder. “Yeah, what’s up with that?” he asked, the remnants of sleep softening his words. Steve kept his face turned away, staring down at the lake. The moon was new and there were no lights save the one at the end of their dock so far away from here, so Tony couldn’t read his eyes. He could, however, read his posture. The droop of his shoulders, the slight hanging of his head. This was Steve defeated. This was Steve hurting. Alone. Tony held his arm tighter, pressing his mouth onto Steve’s hard shoulder. But he kept speaking. Because he had to. He needed to. Steve needed him to. “You’re scaring me,” he said. “You’re scaring Sam. You’re scaring Wanda.” He laughed, but it was without much humor. “I think the only person you’re _not_ scaring is Bucky, and I don’t know if it’s because you’re basically the same person, or if you just put on a better show for him.”

“No, he’s scared too,” Steve said. “He’s just too busy telling me to tell you.”

“I’m glad somebody’s telling you.”

“Sam told me too.” He snorted. “A few times.”

“Are you ever going to tell _me_ what’s going on?” Tony asked.

Instead of answering, Steve reached into his pocket. The movement disrupted the cat, and Sir Purr leapt lightly down off his lap, threw him a disgruntled look over his shoulder, and sauntered away, tail held high. Steve watched him go, frowning, then held a hand out to Tony. There was something in it. Paper that had once surely been perfect, pristine white, but was now dog-eared and marked with creases. It looked like it had spent a lot of time in that pocket. A lot of time in that hand. 

“Here,” Steve said. “Read it.”

Tony sat up a little straighter, pulled Steve’s leather jacket aside--but just barely. He didn’t want to relinquish that warmth, that comfort completely--and took the paper in his hand.

It was heavy and rich, not some cheap handbill passed out on a street corner. This had cost somebody some money. He unfolded it along the creases and squinted at the letterhead, his eyes just barely able to make it out in the starlight: _From the Desk of Thaddeus Ross._

“What the _fuck_?” Tony whispered, and his eyes shot to Steve’s face. He didn’t meet Tony’s eyes. His own had dropped to his hands, loosely clasped between his knees. “Steve?” Tony said. “What is this?”

Steve sighed. “Just read it.”

Tony looked down at the typed words. They swam together into a blurry blotch, and he grunted. He squeezed then shut, rubbed them, and tried again. _Fuck_.

“I, uh, left my glasses in the house,” he muttered, and while his eyes might be a little less than perfect now, there was nothing wrong with his ears. He heard Steve’s soft snort of laughter loud and clear. He sunk his teeth into Steve’s shoulder.

“Ow,” Steve said, but he was smiling. Tony felt a little lighter because of it.

“Just tell me what it says, smartass, huh?”

Steve turned to him, finally. The smile was still there, playing over his lips, but his eyes were dark, almost haunted. “Would, um,” he began, swallowed, took a deep breath, then continued, “would you kiss me first, Tony? Please? I-I need it. If I’m going to talk about this, I think I need it.”

The sound of his voice in the darkness was fragile, as if he was teetering on the edge of a precipice above some unknown abyss and it was only Tony’s kiss that could ground him.

Tony touched him, running his fingers gently up his arm to his shoulder, traced the sweet column of his throat, the hollow at the base, the jut of his adam’s apple, then stroked slowly along the sharp line of his jaw. They found the silky promise of his hair and curled into it, using that bit of leverage to pull him closer. “Come here, baby,” he whispered, and Steve leaned into him, sighing as Tony kissed his high cheekbone, then his mouth.

Tony kissed him with a languid purpose, unhurried but complete, delving into his mouth with his tongue to slide against Steve’s, tempting it into his own mouth. They kissed a lot. Every day. Dozens, sometimes hundreds of times a week. A brush of lips over morning coffee. Something sweet and chaste as they passed in the hallway. A heavy, domineering, almost violent clash of lips and teeth and tongues as Tony straddled Steve’s lap on their bed, Steve pushing up into him, both of them panting, sweating, trying hard to reach their climax together. But this, this was Tony’s favorite. This slow, sensual, serpentine dance that was as much solace as seduction. Breathing each other’s air. Sharing each other’s space. Existing together in this world of their own creation where nothing or no one could destroy what they so carefully constructed.

Not even Thaddeus Ross.

Steve broke their kiss at last, but didn’t move away. He held on, pressing his forehead against Tony’s, his eyes closed. “I’m sorry, Tony,” he whispered. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting. I just--I know it’s stupid, but I’ve been stressed about finals coming up. I’ve been pushing myself really hard because I want to do a good job. I want you to be proud of me, and then I came home that day, and _that_ was in the mail.” He gestured sharply at the letter Tony still held. “And I could feel everything slipping away. Everything we have here, everything we’ve _built_ …”

Tony shook his head. “Hey. No, no, no, baby, that’s not going to happen. He can’t take anything away from us. Okay? Nobody can. Nothing we’re not willing to give up.” He shook him softly again by his hair. “And I’m not willing to give _anything_ up. Are you?”

Steve shook his head. “No,” he whispered with fervid certainty.

“Then don’t worry about this slipping away. Nothing’s slipping away,” Tony said, and his words were as much a balm to his own worried mind as they were to Steve’s. This wasn’t going to crumble. This wasn’t going to slip away. This was here. This was real. This was always. Tony would make sure of it. He’d lay down his life for it.

“I love you so much, Tony. Sometimes I’m scared of how much I love you.”

Tony nodded. “Me too. But that’s a scary I can handle. I _want_ to be scared. That’s a good scared. Isn’t it?”

Steve smiled at him, sighing. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the best scared.”

Tony kissed him again. Soft, short, sweet, then pulled away. He held up the letter. “So? What does he want?”

Steve let out a shuddering breath. “He wants to see me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bringing out the bold-type again...

**Hospital chairs were always so uncomfortable.**

**Hard, lumpy, _small_. They weren’t designed for prolonged hours of sitting, even though that was their exact, practical function. To sit in. For prolonged hours.**

**Steve had sat in a lot of hospital chairs over the years. He’d been to the hospital a lot as a kid, treating or diagnosing one ailment or another, the doctors discussing him as if he was not even in the room. Or maybe as if they thought he was too sick--or too stupid--to understand what was being said. But he understood, alright. He may not have known what all the words _meant_ , but he _understood_ them perfectly well: he was scrawny, sickly, and there was a pretty good chance he would die soon.**

**After the ice, he’d spent time in the hospital, again. It was SHIELD, but Steve knew a hospital when he saw one. They poked him and prodded him, running tests to tease out the reaches and/or limits of Dr. Erskine’s serum. _They_ talked about him, too. In a way, it had been comforting. Not everything had changed, after all. Doctors still thought he was too stupid to understand what they were saying, even though it was perfectly clear: He was big. He was strong. He was _useful._ And he’d probably die soon. That was sad, but this was war. And he was a soldier. He’d do his part to help them win, and then they’d plant him. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Nobody lives forever, kid. ‘Specially not _you_ , Captain Rogers.**

**They’d been right, of course. All those doctors over the years. All those hours spent in tight, uncomfortable hospital chairs. It all boiled down to him dying. Him doing what he’d been made for, then bowing out when the time came. Steve had done that. He’d saved the world. And then he’d died. All had gone according to plan. No fuss. No muss. Done and done.**

**They hadn’t planned on him falling in love, though. Hadn’t planned on someone falling in love with him.**

**Dr. Erskine could have told them, if he’d lived long enough. They would have known even if they’d read between the lines of his files. Even from that first meeting, he had seen Steve’s heart. Seen how good it was. How profound. How it yearned for one to match it. Match its intensity, its passion, its desire to love and be loved, its need to find the one other that could understand it and cherish not only its strength, but its vulnerability. He’d seen it, and marked it, written about it, but he was a scientist, not a poet, so unable to state the scope of it, he simply called it “strong”. Had simply called Steve “noble”. The words, even to Erskine, had seemed trite, but the depth of Steve Rogers’ heart was too deep to fathom.**

**Steve knew nothing of this. Knew nothing of Erskine’s view of him other than what he had said that night sitting on the bunk opposite him. But Steve liked him. He liked him and admired him. And, so, Steve had never been exactly what the government wanted him to be. He could never be the perfect soldier, because he was too busy trying to be what his friend Dr. Erskine asked him to be: a good man.**

**Was it any wonder Tony Stark fell for him so completely?**

**Was it any wonder Steve, himself, fell?**

**_Maybe it_ was _a wonder_ , Steve thought as he sat in one more uncomfortable hospital chair, holding Tony’s hand as he lay looking so small, so defenseless in that large expanse of hospital-white, hooked up to a dozen machines with tubes and wires going into and coming out of his body. Maybe it was a _shock_. It certainly was to him. The fact that he had met, gotten to know, and fallen in love with someone as smart, kind, and wonderful as Tony Stark--the fact that someone like Tony even _existed_ \--had been a shock to him. And the fact that Steve had fallen in love with him had been a shock, too.**

**It was a vast deal more than a shock when Tony told him he loved him too. It was more like a million-watt lightning strike from heaven. _I love you. I think I’ve always loved you. I don’t want to change it. I don’t want to change anything about it. It makes me a better man._**

**_Tony_ thought loving _Steve_ made him a better man.**

**And that made the lightning strike again. A million watts times ten when Tony said those words.**

**Steve had blown past that, rattling on about other people coming for them. About tearing them apart. But his mind had been nowhere near his mouth at that point. His mind had been stuck fast on Tony’s words. _I love you...It makes me a better man._**

**Loving Tony made _Steve_ a better man, too. He'd never told him that, but it was true.**

**He leaned over in his chair and instead of lifting Tony’s hand to his mouth to kiss the knuckles, he lowered his mouth to the bed and kissed them there where they lay on top of the blanket. “I love you, Tony,” he whispered. “ _You_ make _me_ a better man. Wake up, ‘kay? Wake up so I can show you. I’ll be better. I’ll keep getting better. I promise I will. Just wake up. I need you.”**

**Steve wiped his eyes with the hand not holding Tony’s. They had leaked steadily since he’d been here at Tony’s side--his partner’s side, his _husband’s_ side--and Steve just let them leak. He didn’t need to stop them. He didn’t want to. If he couldn’t cry for the man he loved, then what kind of a man was _he_? What kind of a man hid the love he felt? What kind of a man didn’t feel every feeling that was there inside his body? Steve had never understood the whole “boys don’t cry” thing. Emotion didn’t make you less of a man. It made you a complete one. And he _wanted_ to be complete. But he needed Tony for that.**

**Steve kissed Tony’s hand again, then simply rested his cheek against it, lying half on the bed, wishing he could climb into it and wrap Tony up in his arms. Tony always loved it when they slept huddled together, surrounding each other, encompassing each other.**

**“I can’t sleep when you’re not here,” Tony had complained a couple months ago, when Pepper sent him on a business trip to Tokyo. It was a short one, just four days to oversee negotiations with a distributor, and Tony was happy to go, but he called Steve the second night, prickly, angry, and exhausted, wanting to bitch about something, and that’s what he landed on. “It’s too cold. Whenever you’re not with me, I get too cold now. Why’d you have to get me so used to having you as my human blanket when you won’t go anywhere with me?”**

**“I went to Switzerland with you three weeks ago, Tony,” Steve reminded him.**

**“Yeah. _Three weeks ago,_ Steve. That doesn’t help me now, does it? God, I hate you sometimes.”**

**Steve laughed. He loved pouty-Tony. It was one of his favorite Tonys. “Get another blanket from the closet. They always leave you one. You stay there all the time.”**

**“But then I’d have to get out of bed,” Tony said, touchily. “You come get it for me.”**

**“I’m halfway across the world. You’re ten feet away.”**

**“I know you’re trying to make a point, but I don’t know what it is. Come explain it to me. In person. Right now.”**

**Steve laughed again. “And while I’m there explaining it to you, I can get your blanket out of the closet ten feet away and cuddle you, right?”**

**“I don’t see the point in making the trip just to _talk_ , do you?”**

**“But you hate me.”**

**“I don’t hate you.” Tony whined. “Why would you say I hate you? I love you. Don’t be mean to me. Can’t you see I’m in pain, here? Come cuddle me and make me feel better.”**

**Steve loved sappy-Tony too. It was one of his favorite Tonys.**

**“I’ll cuddle you when you get home, okay?”**

**“For three days, Steve,” Tony demanded. “Three days straight. You don’t get out of bed except to pee and get me food, okay?”**

**Steve grinned. He could feel his skin heating up. Tony always did that to him. “Okay, Tony. Anything you want.”**

**Steve felt a hand on his shoulder and jolted awake. “Tony?” he said, but Tony slept on, oblivious. Steve looked around. Rhodey patted his shoulder. “Oh. Hey, Rhodey.”**

**“Hey, Steve.”**

**“How’s it going?”**

**Rhodey let his gaze travel over his best friend lying unconscious on the bed. “Pretty fucking terrible. You?”**

**Steve nodded. Wiped his eyes. “Pretty fucking terrible.”**

**Rhodey perched on the edge of the bed. He put his hand on Tony’s leg. “The others think you should go home for awhile. Get some sleep. Take a shower. Eat.”**

**Steve was shaking his head. “No. No, I’m not doing that.”**

**“I told them you wouldn’t.”**

**“I don’t want to leave him.”**

**“I know,” Rhodey said quietly, “and I’m not going to tell you to.” He squeezed Tony’s calf with gentle fingers and gave Steve something resembling a smile. “I am going to ask you to let me have some time with him, though. A little while alone with him.”**

**Steve’s hand tightened possessively on Tony’s. His other rose and rubbed his temples. “I don’t know. I don't know if I _can_. I know I’m being selfish,” he said, glancing up at Rhodey's impassive face. “I’m sorry. He’s just always been there for me. Through everything. I need to be here for him now.”**

**Rhodey sighed. “He’s always been there for me, too. Please, Steve. Just for a little while?”**

**Steve’s hand drifted to his mouth, his teeth closed on his thumbnail. He remembered telling Tony once that Rhodey had dibs on him. He didn’t think that still applied. He thought now “partner” trumped “best friend”. He looked at Rhodey, and the tears leaking from _his_ eyes softened Steve’s heart a little, but he still didn’t want to go. He was still worried. **

**“What if he wakes up, though?” Steve asked. “While I’m gone? What if he wakes up and I’m not here? He’s gonna think that I don’t--”**

**“Stop right there,” Rhodey said softly but firmly. “Don’t you dare say that he’s going to think that you don’t care, or that you don’t love him. Don’t you dare say that about him. He’s better than that, and you know it.”**

**Steve’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes grew wide, wild with pain, guilt, and anger. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Rhodey, that’s not...that’s not what I meant,” Steve said gruffly. “I know he wouldn’t _doubt._ I just-I-”**

**“I know. I’m not trying to hurt you.”**

**Steve shook his head, pain and grief overwhelming everything inside him. “No. No, I get it. I know.” He let out a shaky breath. “I know.”**

**Steve leaned abruptly forward and kissed Tony’s forehead. He would have kissed his lips but for the tube protruding from them. “I love you, Tony,” he whispered. “I love you. I’ll be back soon, okay? Rhodey’s here. He wants to see you. He’s gonna take care of you for a little bit. I’ll be back. Really soon, ‘kay? Sooner than you think.” He kissed him again. “I love you. I love you.”**

**He got to his feet and wiped his eyes. “I’ll give you a couple hours. I’ll leave you alone.”**

**Steve started away, but Rhodey caught his wrist. “It’s not your fault, Steve. This isn’t on you.”**

**Steve put a hand on Rhodey’s shoulder and squeezed it. “You know better, Rhodey. We both do.” He gave Rhodey’s shoulder another squeeze, then left the room.**

**The others stood as Steve came into the waiting room.**

**“Honey, how--” Natasha began, but Steve brushed past her without a word, without a glance, and left the hospital through the front door. He had the keys to Tony’s car in his pocket. He took them out, unlocked the door, and slid inside. He turned the key and revved the engine, bringing it to growling life. He pulled out of the parking lot and sped away. Toward home.**

**It didn’t take long to get there, not driving as fast as Steve drove, working through the gears like a man possessed, and soon he was pulling into the driveway. He stopped the car and sat there for a minute. It smelled like leather in here, and a faint hint of strawberry air freshner. Tony always bought strawberry. He _only_ bought strawberry. Tony acted like there was some kind of joke there, but if there were, Steve didn't get it. Steve would ask him again when Tony woke up.**

**If _he wakes up_ , a cold, cruel part of himself said, and Steve shut it up immediately. Tony was going to wake up. He had to.**

**Steve got out of the car and went into the house. He tossed the keys into the bowl on the table like Tony always did. The sound usually brought Sir Purr on the run, but he didn’t come this time. Steve glanced around, waiting. “Cat?” he called. “Cat, where are you?”**

**When he still didn’t come, Steve walked into the kitchen. Sir Purr’s food dish was full. Someone kind had fed him this morning, but he hadn’t eaten anything. Steve bent over and rattled the dish. If the keys didn’t bring him on the run, the sound of his food dish surely would.**

**But there was no running feet, no rusty purr, no meowing, irritating, not-as-bad-as-Steve-had-thought cat twining around his ankles, staring up at him with big, green eyes.**

**Steve straightened up. “Cat?” he called again, frowning, worried now. “Come here, kitty.”**

**He walked past the bedroom. He didn’t go inside. He couldn’t. He didn’t know how Tony had been able to live here alone for so long, when Steve couldn’t even look inside the bedroom. But Tony was stronger than he was. He always had been.**

**Steve didn’t go in, but he called for the cat outside the door. Sir Purr still didn’t come. And then Steve forgot about everything else. He forgot about everything, everyone, he forgot about everything but the one thing. Tony had always admired Steve’s focus. Even when he hated it, he still admired it. And now Steve’s focus, that dangerous, battle-field focus, narrowed to one thing: Finding Tony’s cat.**

**“Cat. Come here, cat. Kitty-kitty?”**

**He went from room to room, methodical, thorough, his eyes searching corners, under furniture, behind curtains. He didn’t panic, but his heart pounded in his chest. His breath came hot and fast. He couldn’t lose the cat. He couldn’t. He could not. When Tony came home-- _If_ , that voice whispered like a razor-blade caress--he had to have the cat here. That was non-negotiable. That was paramount. Tony loved the stupid cat. He loved it maybe more than he loved Steve sometimes. It meant everything to him. The cat was his world. His baby…**

**“Kitty-kitty? Sir Purr? Come on, baby, where are you?”**

**Steve strode into the garage, eyes raking over the entire place. “Sir Purr? Baby, come--”**

**_Meow._**

**Steve sagged against the doorframe, relief--and grief--flooding him. Adrenaline pounded in his veins, but he breathed through it, trying to rid himself of it as his eyes found the cat’s. Sir Purr looked at him from under Tony’s workbench.**

**_Meow_.**

**Steve squatted, snapped his fingers lightly. “Sir Purr,” he said softly. “Come here, kitty.”**

**Sir Purr hesitated, unmoving, muscles coiled and tense. Steve could read the indecision in him, and he was afraid he wouldn’t come. He was afraid the cat would just stay there, waiting for Tony to come home, not eating, not doing anything, wasting away, just waiting, waiting for a day that may never come. “Please, baby,” Steve said, and finally the cat ran to him and leapt into his arms. He stared into Steve’s face, green eyes wide, seeming to search for something, some answer maybe Steve could provide.**

**_Meow._**

**Steve cradled him, rubbed his cheek on his yellow fur. “It’s okay,” he said, standing with the cat held tight to his chest. He went to the couch, Tony’s old, black leather couch, and sat down. “It’s okay, kitty, I got you. It’s okay.”**

**_Meow._**

**“I know,” Steve whispered. “I know.” Steve held the cat, petting him, cuddling him, trying to do for him what Tony did, all the while knowing it would never be enough, never be the same thing. “He’ll be home soon,” Steve said. “I promise, ‘kay? Tony will be home soon. Real soon.”**

**Tears started falling again as the cat lay in his arms. “It’s okay. It’s okay, baby. I’m here,” he said. “Daddy’s here.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to get this finished as fast as possible. Hopefully, I will have the next chapter up tomorrow. Proofing it now, but it's a hurried proof. Forgive any mistakes. No matter how long I live, punctuation will always be the bane of my existence. It's a love/hate thing. I heard a story once about Ernest Hemingway (I think it was Hemingway) going to get a drink at the end of the day. The guy at the counter asks him what he's been doing all day. Hemingway said he'd been working. On what? the guy asks, and Hemingway says he was trying to figure out whether or not to leave a comma in place. All day. I feel you, bro.   
> P.S. Making this clear: I did NOT just compare myself to Hemingway. I just like the story. I wouldn't even compare myself to V.C. Andrews.   
> P.P.S. I love V.C. Andrews. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet...

_~~Secretary Ros~~ _

_~~General Ross,~~_   
_~~I don’t think~~ _

_General Ross,_   
_~~I do not believe it would be beneficial~~_

Steve scratched out what he’d written. Again. It didn’t sound right. He couldn’t get it to sound right. Nothing he wrote or said ever sounded right to him. Why couldn’t he be more like Tony? Why couldn’t he say what he meant and have it flow off his tongue--or his pen, in this case--the way Tony could? It wasn’t fair.

He groaned and tossed his pen down, rubbing his face with heavy hands.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “No. I don’t know.”

“What have you got so far?”

Steve looked at the paper. “‘General Ross’.”

“Okay,” Tony said, nodding encouragingly. “Okay, sounds good so far. What else?”

Steve shook his head. “Nothing. That’s it. ‘General Ross’.”

Tony’s face went blank, then he nodded again. “Okay. Well, that’s good, right? I mean, that _is_ his name.”

Steve put his head in his hand, but he felt good. Tony’s encouragement made him feel good. Happy. “You don’t have to try and put a positive spin on this, Tony. I know it sucks.”

“It doesn’t suck,” Tony said, and came to lean over his shoulder and look at the paper. “Really. It’s good. You’re doing good.”

Steve snorted laughter. “Really? You think this is good, huh?”

“Well,” he said, “it’s not _bad_.”

Tony put his hands on Steve’s shoulders, pressed his thumbs into either side of his spine and kneaded his muscles, rubbing the tension out of them.

“Mm,” Steve sighed. “Now, _that’s_ good.”

“You like that?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Nothing but the best for you, baby.”

Steve closed his eyes and leaned his head back against Tony’s stomach. “Then why do I have to write this?”

“You don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

Tony kissed his neck, rubbed his shoulders, turning Steve to putty in his hands. “No, Steve, you really don’t. You don’t have to say anything. Just leave it alone. You don’t owe him anything.”

“I know,” Steve said. “I know I don’t owe him, but...maybe he owes me. Maybe he’s gonna say something nice.”

Tony laughed softly. “My little optimist,” he said, peppering little kisses onto Steve’s neck.

“Tell me what to write,” Steve said, closing his eyes in pleasure. “You’re smart. And you talk more than anybody I ever met. And _better_ than anybody I ever met.”

“That’s not true,” Tony said. He moved his hands up to Steve’s hair, massaging and scratching his scalp. Steve was melting, the tension running out of him like water. That was the plan. He was tense. He’d been tense for days. Too fucking tense for Tony’s taste. Ever since Ross’ letter had come, he’d been wound way too tight. Tony had been trying to get him to relax. He’d been doing everything he could think of. He’d even made him tea. He’d even... _drunk_ tea with him. This was better. Touching him was better. Kissing him was better. Steve seemed to think so, too. The tea hadn’t made him _this_ mellow.

“Yes, it is. Name one person who talks better than you.”

Tony laughed. “Um...you?”

“Stop it.”

“I’m serious, Steve,” Tony said. “I have heard more than one rousing speech out of your mouth, so don’t sit there and act like you don’t know how to talk.”

“I didn’t say I don’t know how. I’m just saying it-” he lifted the paper covered in scratched-out words, “- _this_ isn’t working. I can’t get it to work. I don’t know what to say, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be good enough for _him_.”

Tony put his arms around Steve’s neck and lay pressed up against his back. “‘Kay. ‘Kay, I’ll tell you what to write.”

“Okay, good. Thank you.” Steve picked up his pen and held it poised over the paper. “Fire away, boss.”

“Oh, I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah? Tell me what to write, and maybe I’ll say it again.”

“Deal. Dear General Ross,” Tony recited.

“‘Dear’?”

“Yup.”

“Okay.”

Steve scratched down the words Tony had said, then looked expectantly back over his shoulder at him.

“Thank you for your interest in meeting with me.”

_Scratch scratch scritch scratch_

“However, upon closer review…”

_Scratch scritchy scratch_

“I would prefer it if you went and fucked yourself.”

_Heavy disappointed sigh_

“Sincerely, Captain Steven Grant Rogers.” He ran his hands through Steve’s hair. “Or maybe ‘ _Love_ , Captain Steven Grant Rogers’?” Tony shrugged. “I’ll leave that one up to you.”

“Not helping, Tony.”

Tony kissed him some more. Steve relaxed some more. “Your mouth says no, Steve, but your body says yes.”

Steve laughed in a lazy, helpless way that made Tony feel almost giddy. Had Steve told him once that love fades? He felt sorry for the poor bastards who lived _that_ sad story.

“You’re such a dork,” Steve said. “I can’t believe I just said you talk better than anybody. You really know how to prove me wrong, don’t you?”

“I should. I’ve been doing it for over a decade now.”

“I guess so.”

“But you still love me, though, right?” Tony teased. “Come on, Steve, let’s hear one of those rousing speeches about how much you love me.”

Steve looked back and locked eyes with Tony. He gripped his hands and held them tight. “I could show you instead.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I said _rousing_ not _a_ rousing. Get your mind out of the gutter, you dirty, old man.”

Steve’s look turned coy. God, he could flip that on and off like a switch. It made Tony a little dizzy sometimes. He never knew what he was going to get when it came to Steve. He loved that. It was infuriating sometimes, but he loved it.

“I’m not old,” Steve said, and Tony kissed his mouth.

“Just dirty, huh?”

“You said it.”

Tony grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Come on, then. I’ll run you a bath. Help clean you up a little.”

“Not _too_ clean, though, right, boss?”

“You really know how to talk some trash, don’t you, Rogers?”

\---

Steve finished the letter.

He cut out the “fuck yourself” part, added a little more to it, and took out the “Dear” in the greeting, but everything else was better than anything he could have come up with on his own. He didn’t say “Love” at the end, either. Tony had just been joking about that--he hoped--and after much interior debate, he settled on the original “Sincerely”. It seemed formal and polite. That was what he wanted. Formal. Polite.

He showed it to Tony when he finished it, bringing it into the bedroom and handing it to him with a shy, downcast eye. Tony read it through, glasses perched on the end of his nose, frowning over it seriously. 

Steve chewed his thumbnail as he watched Tony read. “Well?” he urged after a minute. 

“Just a sec.”

Steve subsided into nervous silence again. He counted to one hundred. Three times. When he could stand it no longer, he said, “Come on, Tony. You’ve read it ten times. What do you think?”

Tony read it again, then folded it back up and looked at him over the top of his glasses.

“ _Well?_ ”

“I think it’s great.”

“Yeah?” he said, anxiously. “You think it’s okay?”

Tony put his hand on Steve’s cheek and drew him forward. He kissed his mouth soundly. “Baby, it’s perfect.”

A little ember glowed in Steve’s chest like a tiny, molten sun. “You wrote most of it,” he said.

“No. No, no, this is all you. It’s concise. It’s polite. It’s...you. It’s better than he deserves.”

“So, you think I should send it?”

“Fuck, yeah,” Tony said, and Steve ducked his head, grinning. “In fact,” Tony went on, “let _me_ do it. I’ll take it in the morning on my way to work.”

“You don’t mind?”

“I’d love to.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Tony kissed him again. “You’re welcome, baby.”

Steve lay over on the bed, rolling onto his side next to Tony and touched his t-shirt. The Eagles. They were a little more mellow than Tony’s usual taste, but Steve liked them. It was nice. Finally liking some of the same music Tony did. He got the feeling that Tony had been searching for a band they could both enjoy, and Steve was happy he’d found one. Happy he’d finally been able to give Tony something that seemed so important to him.

“Do you mind if I work for a little while longer?” Tony asked.

“Not if you don’t mind if I go to sleep. I’m tired.”

Tony ran his hand through Steve’s blond hair, relishing its silky texture. “Of course, I don’t mind. Go to sleep. I won’t be much longer.”

“‘Kay.” He curled his hand into Tony’s shirt. Maybe that was silly, but it was a comfort to him. Like a security blanket. He wondered sometimes if maybe he and Tony were a little co-dependent. If it was a little weird how much they seemed to need each other around. How much they touched and kissed and thought about each other. But then Tony would look at him and smile and then he wouldn’t wonder again for awhile. He'd just enjoy being with him. And besides, what was wrong with a little dependency? “Goodnight, Tony. I love you.”

Tony touched his hair again. “I love you, too.”

Tony kept his hand in Steve’s hair, kept petting him until his breathing evened out and he was asleep. It didn’t take very long. Steve fell asleep easier now, stayed asleep longer. His nightmares were less frequent, less violent when they did come. Tony felt an intense satisfaction in that. In knowing that he was part of the reason Steve finally slept soundly through the night. It was probably wrong to feel that way, to take personal pride in something that really only boiled down to a physiological need, but, who gave a fuck? Steve used to have profound, scream-inducing night-terrors. Now, he did not. Tony didn’t think he was the _only_ reason--even _his_ ego wouldn’t let him go that far--but he would be a fool to think he didn’t have something to do with it.

He picked up Steve’s letter to Ross and read it through again. His heart filled with tender love thinking of all the hours Steve had spent agonizing over this little one-paragraph, carefully-worded, impeccably-formatted letter. He wished he could see Ross’ face when he read it. Wished he could spit _in_ his face after he read it. And that was in spite of his intense aversion to spitting. Why couldn’t he leave them alone? Ross had served his time, just the same as Steve had. He wasn’t back in Washington yet, but he could go back any time he wanted. True, Tony had heard his wife had taken a little sabbatical of her own. Had moved to Iowa to be nearer to her family while Ross was in The Raft and hadn’t come back yet, even through Ross had been back for six months. There were rumors of a divorce brewing in the Ross household. Maybe Thaddeus had told her what he’d done. He had to have told her something when he went to The Raft. He couldn’t get away with the company line of bullshit when it came to his own wife. 

Tony tried not to feel guilt over that. _He_ hadn’t made Ross do what he did to Steve. _He_ hadn’t forced Ross to drug him, and use him, and torture him for over a fucking year. That had been Thaddeus, himself. Good, old fucking Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross. Whatever consequences he faced, he’d brought them on himself.

And Tony kinda wanted to see it.

Kinda wanted to see his reaction.

He looked at the letter. The careful, calm, conscientious letter that Steve had written. _I appreciate your interest in wanting to meet with me… It would be better if we didn’t come in contact… I truly wish you and your family the best…_

Steve had signed his name at the bottom. _Steve Rogers._ Not the much more authoritative _Captain Steven Grant Rogers_ that Tony had suggested. Just his name. As if they were equals. As if they were _friends._

Tony glanced at Steve again, his smooth cheek, his closed eyelids, his red, parted lips. He worked so hard, deserved so much…  
  
The screen on his tablet had gone dark. Tony swiped it awake and searched his contacts. He had Ross’ private email. He had a lot of people’s private emails. He’d told Steve once a long time ago, he was nosy and he liked to know things that were none of his business. That trait came in handy sometimes.

He clicked on Ross’ name and started typing:

_Ross, I’ve got Steve’s response to your letter. Let’s meet up and I can give it to you. How about tomorrow at 4:00? Central Park on the hill near the duck pond. Do I have to be more specific? If I do, you’re a bigger asshole than I thought._   
_Tony Stark_

He didn’t even hesitate before hitting ‘send’.

Tony folded Steve’s letter and slid it back into the envelope he’d put it in, and set it on the nightstand. He put his tablet next to it, and switched off his lamp.

Steve shifted a little as Tony slid down the headboard next to him. Shifted more when Tony nudged him awake enough to open his arms and let Tony in.

“You okay?” Steve mumbled, as Tony wrapped himself up in his warm embrace.

Tony kissed the underside of his jaw, nuzzled into his chest. “Yeah. I’m good. Just need my human blanket. Go back to sleep.”

“‘Kay,” he said, and held Tony tighter, asleep again in seconds.

Tony held onto him, breathing in his scent, basking in his nearness. Ross had wanted to take this away from him. From _them_.

 _Never going to happen,_ Tony thought. _Never. I’ll die before I let that happen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you all have a great day! Or night, whichever it may be for you! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Cold. God, he was cold. Wet. Water moving up his legs, starting at his ankles, then his calves, his knees. His breath came in ragged, panting gasps. Terror engulfed him as the freezing water did the same. He couldn’t move. He was paralyzed with fear, with cold, with pain. Oh yeah, there was pain. Shattered knee, shattered collar-bone, broken ribs, punctured lung. You didn’t crash a plane into the ocean without consequences. Blood sheeted down his face from a head wound. The blood was hot. The only warmth in the world for him.**

**“Peggy,” he said, and the pain was sharp and deep, like his grief. Like his love. “Peggy. Peggy.”**

**The water reached his chest, freezing him as it came, stealing his warmth, leeching away his life.**

**“Help me,” he whispered, and the tears came now. “Bucky, help me. Please. Please.”**

**The water reached his throat, and he couldn’t struggle. Could not move at all.**

**“I don’t want to die,” he choked out, and he tried to cast his mind away, back to the press of Peggy’s red lips, back to Bucky’s arm around his shoulders, back to his mother’s warm embrace. “I don’t want to die. Bucky, Peggy, please. I don’t want to die.”**

**And then the water was in his mouth, and his mind shut down, and his heart stopped. Frozen. He was frozen.**

  
**Steve screamed himself awake, the cold bone-deep, shivering, sweating, grasping hands searching for something--anything--warm. _Tony,_ his mind screamed. _Tony, where are you_?**

**He struggled up, clawing his way out of the nightmare. He cast his eyes around the room, finding nothing but cold, frigid darkness. His fingers scrabbled on leather. _Leather. Motor oil. Coffee._**

**Tony.**

**“Tony?” he called when he found his voice. And his breath started to ease. His heart started to slow its frantic pace. “Tony?” But he knew he wasn’t here. Steve knew. He knew where he was now. He knew where _Tony_ was. And he knew whose fault it was, too.**

**He said his name again, but this time, he used it as a steadying mantra. “Tony. Tony. Tony.”**

**He wanted Tony.**

**Steve put his head in his hands, then ran them up over his face, through his sweat-damp hair.**

**He wanted Tony.**

**He breathed deeply in, then out, and he was thinking about Tony’s mouth on his, Tony’s fingers on his cheek. Tony sitting on his lap in the darkness. “Think about that,” he’d said, and that’s what Steve did. He thought about Tony until the nightmare was gone. He thought about Tony, and the grief and guilt came back. He thought about Tony and hated himself for letting things happen the way they had. He thought about Tony.**

**He wanted Tony.**

**Steve let out another breath and looked around. Right. The garage. Tony’s old leather couch. He ran his hands over it, imagining Tony sitting here beside him, and when his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw bright green ones under the workbench.**

**“Hey,” he called softly. “Sir Purr. Come here, cat.”**

**He came to him and jumped up onto Steve’s knee. Steve pet him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Nightmares, right? They suck.”**

**Sir Purr didn’t answer, but Steve hadn’t really expected him to.**

**Steve didn’t wear a watch. He didn’t have to. Tony did. For Christmas, one of the gifts under the tree had been a watch. A Rolex Submariner. Steve had opened it and smiled. It was gorgeous and he’d wear it, he thought, but he didn’t like wearing a watch. He didn’t need--or want--to be reminded of the passage of time. Too much time had passed too quickly, and he didn’t like to think of the minutes he had left in his life, his life here with his partner, his husband, being counted down right there on his wrist.**

**“Thanks, Tony,” he said. “God, it’s beautiful.”**

**Tony nodded. “Yeah, it is,” he answered, then took it out of Steve’s hand and put it on his own wrist.**

**“Hey. I thought that was mine.”**

**“It is yours, baby,” Tony said. “I’m just going to wear it for you. I know you hate wearing one, so now you can just keep asking me what time it is. I’ll be your personal time-keeper.”**

**Steve smiled at him from under his lashes. “But then you’ll have to follow me around everywhere I go just in case I need to know what time it is.”**

**“It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s gotta do it.”**

**Steve pounced on him then, and they made out like lovestruck teenagers amid the discarded paper and untied bows, the lights turning their skin rainbow colors in the early-morning quiet.**

**It was early-morning quiet now, too, but his personal time-keeper wasn’t here to tell him the hour.**

**“FRI?” he said. “Are you there?”**

**“I’m here.”**

**“What time is it?”**

**“Three thirty-one.”**

**“AM?”**

**“Yes.”**

**“Has there been any calls? Did anybody say if there’s been any change?”**

**“No, Captain. No one has called. I’m sorry.”**

**Steve sighed heavily. “Me too, FRI. But, he’ll be home soon, right? He’ll be home and then we can get back to normal. The four of us. Right, FRI?”**

**Her voice was soft, gentle. “Of course he will, Captain.”**

**“Yeah,” Steve murmured. “Yeah, of course he will.”**

**Steve pet the cat, then lifted him and carried him into the kitchen. He sat him down by his food dish, and Sir Purr looked up at him.**

**“Eat,” Steve said firmly, and the cat followed orders.**

**Steve went into the bathroom, showered, then shaved carefully with one of the disposable Bic razors he had now. He only nicked himself once. _Safety razor, my ass,_ he thought, and splashed on a little aftershave. It burned, but it felt good. He liked the burn.**

**He dressed in a blue t-shirt, jeans, and one of his old flannel shirts. Tony made fun of his flannel shirts, but whenever he wore one, Tony’s hands seemed to find their way onto his arms or his shoulders, unconsciously running over the soft, wash-worn fabric. Of course, Tony’s hands usually ended up on him no matter what he wore. Tony was a tactile guy. He liked to touch. That was fine with Steve. He liked to _be_ touched.**

**Steve pet the cat a little more before he left. Most of the food in the dish was gone, and Steve told him what a good cat he was for eating. What a good job he had done. Told him he’d be home soon. Told him Tony would be home soon, then put him down, grabbed the keys to Tony’s car and left.**

**It was 5:15 when he got to the hospital. Visiting hours didn’t start until 9:00, but Steve didn’t care about visiting hours. They were meaningless. He looked around the waiting room, saw no one he knew, and strode down the hall to the ICU.**

**Tony’s door was closed, and he eased it open, hoping, praying that Tony would be awake. That his eyes would crinkle at the corners when he smiled at him, that he’d yell at him for not being here when he woke up, that he’d make grabby-hands at him and tell him to get the fuck _over_ here, and that he’d kiss him, and hug him, and tell him how much he missed his human blanket because he was too cold without him. That he couldn’t sleep without him.**

**Tony was still unconscious.**

**Natasha and Bruce were in the room, curled up on the chair, Nat in Bruce’s lap, her head on his shoulder. Bruce slept on, but Natasha’s eyes opened in the dim room, marking Steve’s progress as he crossed the room, bent over Tony, and kissed his forehead.**

**“Hey,” he said into Tony’s ear. “Hey, you. Wake up.”**

**It felt strange, that “Hey, you.” That was _Tony’s_ line. His was the “fuck you” follow-up. It felt foreign in his mouth. Wrong.**

**He pressed another kiss to Tony’s cheek, then sat on the bed beside him. He looked at Nat out of the corner of his eye. His cheeks flamed guiltily. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “About yesterday. I didn’t mean to blow you off.”**

**She took his hand and held it. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, honey.” Her eyes flicked to Bruce, then back. “I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling.”**

**“Still. I am sorry.”**

**“Will it make you feel better if I say it’s okay?”**

**“Yes.”**

**“Then it’s okay. You’re forgiven.”**

**Steve’s mouth turned up at the corner. “Thanks. Has the doctor been in?”**

**“Stephen’s been in and out,” she said, her fingers toying with Bruce’s shirt button restlessly. “And Bruce has been keeping an eye on him in between.” She caressed his cheek lightly. “He just dropped off about an hour ago.”**

**“I’m sorry I was gone so long,” Steve said. “I fell asleep. I didn’t want to, I just--”**

**“Honey, you needed it. You’ve been here non-stop for three days.”**

**He touched Tony’s blanket-covered knee. “I didn’t want to leave him.”**

**“I know. But he wasn’t alone. Rhodey was here, and Pepper. Me and Bruce. Jeff. Ray.” She laughed softly in the darkness. “Thor brought some kind of plant they used to grow on Asgard. He said it was customary and ‘aided relaxation’.”**

**Steve raised his eyebrows. He looked like he was preparing himself for a blow. “And?”**

**“And apparently, ‘relaxation’ and ‘high as a kite’ are the same thing on Asgard.”**

**Steve couldn’t help the grin that surfaced on his face. “Oh no.”**

**“Yeah. Everybody started getting _real_ happy.”**

**Steve laughed. He didn’t want to, but he thought of the way Tony would have reacted to that, and the laughter just happened.**

**“Strange finally came in and told him he had to take it away. Thor was pissed. Jeff calmed him down, and got the plant out the door.” She laughed again. Bruce shifted beneath her and she ran a hand through his hair. “Shh,” she soothed. “Go back to sleep.” He eased under her hand, and Natasha kissed his cheek.**

**Steve’s heart ached, watching it, and his eyes went to Tony. He rubbed his knee, then took his hand.**

**Nat turned back to him. “Anyway, Thor said he’d be back when you were here. He said mortal men couldn’t understand.” She gave him a considering look. “But _you_ would.”**

**“I don’t think he gets that I’m mortal.”**

**Nat raised an eyebrow. “ _Are_ you?” she asked, and while her voice was light, her eyes were not. They were dark, deep, and Steve felt himself getting flustered under their scrutiny. For a brief moment, he remembered the sizzle of electricity as he held Stormbreaker in his hand, felt the euphoria of driving it into Thanos’ skull even as his own bones were crushed inside his body. He remembered dying on that hill in Central Park, his head lying in Tony’s lap, Tony’s fingers on his cheek. He remembered waking up in Shuri’s med-bay, turning his head and seeing Tony sprawled in a chair beside him, eyes closed, deeply asleep, his head cocked to one side. His hand lay on the blanket, close to, but not touching Steve’s, but even in his pain-addled, terrified, confused mind, he’d known that Tony had fallen asleep holding his hand. And if he hadn’t known before that he was in love with Tony Stark, lying there in that white room, body shrieking in pain, mind screaming that he should be dead, why wasn’t he _dead_? Steve knew one second of complete peace. Because Tony was there. Tony was there, and Steve loved him, and none of the rest of it mattered. All of the rest was just window-dressing and stage make-up. The real thing, the only real thing was Tony’s hand lying next to his and the knowledge that it had been holding his not very long ago. And the absolute _certainty_ that it would be holding his again as soon as Tony woke up.**

**And, of course, that was what happened.**

**Steve squeezed Tony’s hand now, vowing he’d never let it go. If they died tomorrow or forty years from now, he’d never let it go.**

**“You guys should go back to the house,” he said, turning back to Nat. “Get some real sleep.”**

**“No. We want to be here for you and Tony.”**

**“You have been. You, Rhodey, Pepper, Thor, Strange, Jeff and Ray, you guys have all been here.”**

**An unreadable look passed over her pale face. “Yes, _we_ have been. I don’t know where Clint is,” she said softly, carefully. “Or Wanda.”**

**Steve stiffened. No one else would have noticed, but Nat’s eyes narrowed. “They’re on assignment,” he said, knowing it would be pointless to lie.**

**“What kind of assignment?”**

**Steve drew in a breath. “Personal.”**

**“What do you mean, ‘personal’?”**

**“One they volunteered for,” he said flatly. “Them and Bucky.”**

**Her eyes flashed a warning. “Steve--”**

**“Don’t,” Steve said, shaking his head. “Nat, please. I love you, but don’t.”**

**“Revenge, Steve? That’s not you. That’s not who you are.”**

**“It’s not revenge,” he said, “it’s--”**

**“You’d better not say justice. It’s not justice. It’s murder.”**

**He shook his head again. “It won’t be murder. And even if it was, would he deserve anything less?” He gestured to Bruce sitting asleep on the chair. His careworn face was smooth now, his hair a casual tumble of dark waves. Steve had never seen him look so peaceful. “What if it was Bruce lying here, huh? Would we be having this conversation then?”**

**“Yes, we would. We’d just be on the opposite sides.” She looked at him, her eyes frank and serious. “You know we would be. Because you’re not a murderer, Steve. You don’t do it, and you don’t condone it. And you certainly don’t _order_ it done. You’re a soldier, not a mafia trigger-man.”**

**“I’ve killed before, Nat. My hands aren’t clean.”**

**“No, they’re not,” she agreed. “But whatever blood is on your hands came from war. It didn’t come from personal gain, or personal feelings. There is a difference between a casualty and a murder. You know that. _I_ know you know that, and so do _you_.”**

**Steve sighed and squeezed Tony’s hand, drawing strength from it. “Look, it’s just recon and location right now, okay?” he said quietly. “Nothing’s been decided yet.”**

**“Do I get a vote?”**

**“Of course you do.”**

**Natasha looked at Tony, the wires and tubes attached to his body. Her shoulders dropped a fraction. Tears welled in her eyes. They didn’t fall, but Steve could see them there, pooling in her lower lids.**

**Finally, she looked back at him. “I don’t know what my vote is. Or what it should be.”**

**They stared at each other in the quiet, then instinctively, simultaneously, reached for each other. They stood, moving seamlessly like they’d always done, and locked their arms around each other, Natasha’s around Steve’s neck, Steve’s around Nat’s waist, and held on. For comfort, for apology, for forgiveness, for outright and undying love, they held on. Tony slept on, but Bruce’s eyes opened. He watched them embrace, then let his eyes fall closed again. He didn’t completely understand their connection. He never would. But he knew it was all about love, and that was not a bad thing. Bruce thought the world needed all the love it could get.**

**“Do you want the chair?” Natasha asked when they parted, but Steve shook his head.**

**“No. Keep it. Bruce is asleep, and I want to be close to him,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Tony.**

**Natasha looked at him skeptically. “What are you going to do? Just perch on the edge of the bed for the next three hours?”**

**Steve shook his head. “Nah. I’ve got a system all mapped out.”**

**“Let’s see it, then.”**

**Steve knew he couldn’t lay beside Tony, not with the complication of machinery all around him, but there was a bit of room at the foot of the bed. He crawled up on his hands and knees, and curled his bulk around Tony’s feet and halfway up his side. He ended up with his cheek resting on Tony’s thigh and his arm wrapped around his knees. It was a little uncomfortable, but he was here, he was touching Tony, feeling his familiar heat and trying hard to give him his own. He reached up and lay his hand on Tony’s chest. He could feel it moving as the machines helped him breathe.**

**From this angle, he could still lock eyes with Nat. She had reclaimed her space on Bruce’s lap. Bruce put his arms around her and held her against his chest. Her lips curved upward as she looked at Steve. “You look like a cat all curled up like that,” she whispered.**

**“That’s me. Just a big old kitty-cat.”**

**“No, _I’m_ a kitty-cat,” she said. “You’re a big old tiger.”**

**He grinned, his teeth flashing between the red of his lips. “Tiger, huh?”**

**“Mm-hmm. You growl like one too, sometimes.”**

**“Do I?”**

**“Yes.”**

**Steve sighed, his stomach suddenly turning into knots. “Sounds pretty scary.”**

**Nat shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s not scary, honey. _You’re_ not scary. You’re sweet. And kind. And good. Not scary.”**

**Tony’s favorite three lines appeared between his brows as he frowned. “What are you trying to tell me, Nat?”**

**She turned her face into Bruce’s neck and said nothing for a moment. Steve waited. He knew her. He knew she wasn’t finished speaking, just trying to find the best way to say what she needed to. He let her figure it out. He owed her that. And he needed to know what she had to say. If it was important to her, it was important to him. Especially now. Especially here.**

**Natasha kissed Bruce’s throat, a gentle press of her lips, and he sighed in his sleep. It was a very intimate sound. Not sexual, but personal. Something that he probably hadn’t gotten to share with many people. Steve felt a little awed by it. Almost honored to have heard it, to have witnessed this moment of shared sweetness between the two of them.**

**At last, she looked back at Steve. Her face was filled with a quiet determination laced with fear. “I’m trying to tell you I’ll back your play,” she said, and he drew in a deep breath. “Even if you’re wrong, you’re still half right. Because Ross doesn’t deserve anything less.”**

**“Than murder?”**

**“Than death. Than... _justice_.”**

**Steve ran his fingers over the hard, regular edge of the arc reactor in Tony’s chest. The light turned his fingers blue, light blue, like clear ocean waters. Steve curled tighter around him, letting Tony know he was here without speaking it aloud. He thought Tony might be beyond hearing right now. But was he beyond touch? Was he beyond the feeling of contact against him? Steve hoped not. Hoped he could be a comfort to him, wherever he was.**

**“I don’t want him to die, Nat,” he whispered, his tears falling again onto Tony’s thigh. “I don’t want this to be over. I’m not ready.”**

**“I know,” she said. And that was all she said. Just “I know.”**

**Steve fell into a thin sleep after that, one plagued by visions of Thanos wearing Thaddeus Ross’ face, and when he heard a voice, Steve jolted awake. “Tony?” he said, the word falling automatically from his lips.**

**“No. Sorry. Just me.”**

**Steve sat up, wiping tears from his face. The room was brighter now, the lamp in the corner turned on. The curtains across the window had been parted, letting in some light from outside. It was morning. Steve could see brilliant blue sky beyond the glass. “Oh,” he said, trying for a smile. “I’m sorry, Doctor.”**

**Strange shook his head a little, cocking an eyebrow. “You know, you can call me Stephen.”**

**Steve chuckled under his breath, ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know. Sorry, um, Stephen.”**

**They fell silent, letting that sink in. It sounded odd to both of them.**

**“Where’s Nat?” steve asked. The chair was empty. Both she and Bruce were gone. In a way, Steve was almost glad. He’d had to say something to break the weird quiet between them.**

**Strange seemed relieved too. “They decided to go for a walk and get some coffee. Bruce said Natasha needed some fresh air. I concurred.”**

**“That’s good. I tried to get her to leave earlier, and she wouldn’t.”**

**“Mm. She’s loyal.”**

**“Yeah. To a fault, sometimes.”**

**“Hers or yours?”**

**Steve shrugged. “Both, I guess.” He bent forward and kissed Tony’s knee unselfconsciously, then eased himself off the bed. “Do you need me to leave, or…?”**

**“No, you can stay,” Strange said dismissively as he moved toward Tony, already in full-business mode, reading Tony’s charts, looking at the machinery, making notes.**

**Steve watched, feeling helpless, hovering in the corner, his thumb in his mouth. His teeth bit constantly at his nail, drawing blood from beneath it. He didn’t notice, he just watched while the doctor-- _Stephen_ \--checked Tony’s vital signs, rolled his eyelids back and shone a light into them, muttering to himself.**

**In his pocket, Steve’s phone vibrated against his thigh. A battlefield coolness settled over his nerves even as his heart lurched inside his chest. His spine stiffened ram-rod straight, his shoulders went back and down. His hand fell away from his mouth and the other joined it on either side of his belt buckle. His chin rose to an angle that was more than just confident, it was nearly arrogant. His eyes grew focused. Hard. The blue as cold as ice now, as sharp as glass. All of this happened without Steve’s input or knowledge. There was no way he could know that text was from Clint. There was no way he could know that it contained no words, just a set of coordinates and a question mark. Steve Rogers didn’t have to know. Because Captain America knew.**

**“Steve, I-” Strange began, then stopped when his eyes fell on the man with him in the room now. He stood a little straighter.**

**“Is he going to die?”**

**“I don’t know, Captain.”**

**“When will you know?”**

**“If he makes it through today, he will probably live.”**

**He nodded curtly. “Make it happen.”**

**And Stephen Strange, who had never served in the military, who had spent most of his adult life being deferred to, first as a brilliant, wealthy physician, and then as the Sorcerer Supreme, who had spent a lot of time learning about and trying to help Steve Rogers’ insecurities and delicate, sometimes fragile body and psyche, found himself nodding, agreeing, wanting to serve, wanting to please.**

**“Yes, Captain,” he said.**

**Steve nodded, and it _was_ Steve. He was there, too. Steve Rogers and Captain America, both inhabiting the same body, both there, both present. A fluctuating, fluid dance, acknowledging and using both of their strengths, counter-balancing their weaknesses. “Thank you,” Steve said. “For taking care of him. Please bring him back to me.”**

**Strange nodded again. In his mind, he knew there was nothing else he could do. He’d performed as much as he could. Medicine could only do so much. It was up to Tony now. And time. But he did not say that to Captain Steve Rogers.**

**“We’re trying, Steve.”**

**“I know.”**

**Blue eyes went to Tony’s face, drinking him in, and the love and heartache and resolve Strange saw in them was overwhelming. For the briefest of moments, he thought Tony Stark must be the strongest man in the world if he could stand up under the force of that look day in and day out. The strongest, and the most fortunate.**

**“I have to leave for a little while,” Steve said. “You’ll keep watch here, Doctor.”**

**“Yes.”**

**“And you’ll inform me of any changes.”**

**“Yes.”**

**Steve bowed his head, drew in a deep breath, and let it slowly out. “Please tell Natasha I got called away. Tell her I know what to do now.”**

**“Yes. I will.”**

**He looked at Tony again, Steve’s soft eyes gazing out of Captain America’s hard face. He looked for a long time, as if it would be the last time, then he turned on his heel and left.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something funny happened to me at work last night. I work at a meat counter in a grocery store and it is all open so I can help customers with purchases. I was doing dishes on the back wall, and when I turned around, a woman was standing there. She's a regular customer and really friendly, but I don't know her other than from the store. I came over and got her what she needed, then told her I was sorry about the wait and next time she can just yell at me if my back is turned. She laughed and said, "Yeah, I'll just yell 'Hey, you!"  
> I almost choked.  
> My boss is the most sweet-tempered man in the world, but I think even HE would have to fire me if I started saying "Fuck you!" to customers trying to get my attention, no matter how nicely I said it.  
> I said to her, "Why don't you just call my name?"  
> I couldn't stop smiling for the rest of the night. Kind of a nice feeling after the shit couple of months I've had! :)  
> That's kind of a pointless story, but I thought it would be fun to share!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick warning: there is the use of a homophobic slur here. Sorry about that.  
> Also, this is actually more like Chapter 5: Part 1. Even though I'll call it Chapter 6, the next one will really be Chapter 5: Part 2. I wanted to do it all together, but I was afraid it would be way too long, and I was struggling with where, or if, I should cut it. This seemed like the place.

This was the spot. 

The spot where it happened.

The spot where Steve died.

Tony stood at the top of that grassy little hill where he’d knelt with Steve’s head in his lap so long ago now. 

“Will you stay with me?” he’d asked, and he’d meant stay with him while he died. Because he didn’t want to be alone. Alone like he’d been in the ice. Alone, cold, afraid, dying with no one around. Dying with no one to hold his hand, or stroke his hair, or tell him it would be okay. 

Dying alone.

For a long time, Tony knew _he_ would die alone. 

He had people in his life, sure, but when it came right down to it, he was alone. Those people, no matter how much they loved him, all had _other_ people too. Other people or other priorities, something that would keep them from his side while he lay dying. It was okay. He understood. But it still hurt. The being alone part.

But he wasn’t alone now. He had friends. He had family. He had Steve. He didn’t worry about being alone when he died. Or after he died. Not anymore. They’d all be there with him, and Steve would be there after. He’d promised. It had been part of their marriage vows.

Tony squatted easily and ran his hand through the grass. A light drizzle was falling and it was damp under his fingers. It had been damp before too, but that time it had been damp with Steve’s blood. This was just the rain.

Just the rain.

“FRI?” he said, and she spoke up in his ear.

“Yes, boss.”

“Checking in, angel. I don’t know if he’ll show up or not, but if I safeword, call someone.”

“Yes, boss.”

He’d went dark when meeting with Bucky. Whatever happened between them, Tony had known that the other would go to Steve. Would be there for him, would take care of him, and make it okay--at least, mostly okay--for him. He knew better than to feel that way now with Ross. He may be a lot of things, but Tony Stark wasn’t stupid.

Tony stood up. He didn’t have an umbrella, and the rain was starting to fall harder. Five minutes. He’d give Ross five minutes, and then he’d give up and go home. Steve would be home by now. Waiting for him. Whatever else he was doing, working out, reading, laundry, whatever, what he was really doing, was waiting for Tony. He knew that was true because that’s what _he_ was doing when Steve wasn’t there. Even in the midst of a coffee-and-science binge, part of him was waiting for Steve to come get him and pull him out of it. Sure, he had a lot of work to do, and he was pissed when Steve _did_ come and pull him away, but that other part, that other little part that had been waiting for him, rejoiced.

Tony looked at his-- _Steve’s_ \--watch. 

Two more minutes.

He glanced to the left and looked at the spot where Thanos’ body had lain. _Fucker_ , Tony thought, bitterly. _You evil, delusional, narcissistic--_

“Hello, Stark.”

_\--fucker._

“Hey, Thad. How’s things?”

\---

**This was the spot.**

**The spot where it would happen.**

**The spot where Steve would die.**

**They didn’t come this way often. It wasn’t their usual route to or from the city, but one day six months or so ago, Tony had decided to go the back roads home and they had passed this spot.**

**Steve knew it immediately.**

**He knew this was the place he would die.**

**It was pretty. That was the thing. Tree-lined, sun falling through the leaves dappling the black-top. The underbrush was thick and green, the wildflowers bright, rainbow-hued brush-strokes. There was not much traffic. They’d only seen two or three other cars since Tony had pulled off onto this lonely country road, and the peace that existed here was nearly absolute.**

**Steve felt the cool certainty of his death fall over him as Tony eased around a hair-pin turn. He looked back over his shoulder. _Here_ , he thought. _Here it is. This is the place. This is where I’ll do it._ And it wasn’t a premonition. Because he had no idea of when, or even if he’d have to do it. No, it wasn’t a premonition. It was a plan.**

**“Hey. Hey, come back, Steve.”**

**Steve blinked, looked back at Tony, the spell of that place slipping away while Tony weaved his own much more familiar, much more lovely spell around him.**

**“I’m here.”**

**“You _weren’t._ Where’d you go?”**

**Steve had no intention of telling Tony what had just happened. There would be zero point in telling him that he had just passed the place where, if Tony died before him, he would end his own life. It would just upset him. Hurt him. And Steve didn’t want to hurt him. He’d die before hurting him. _Again._**

**He just shook his head. “I was here. I heard every word you said.”**

**“Oh yeah?” Tony countered. “What’d I say?”**

**Steve took a stab in the dark, going back to a topic he’d mentioned at least three times in the last hour. “That you’re hungry and you don’t know why I didn’t let you stop at that sandwich place in Buxton.”**

**“Lucky guess,” Tony muttered.**

**Steve laughed, took his hand and kissed it. “Wasn’t a guess. I heard you, Tony. I always hear you.”**

**“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he scoffed, and then he was off again, talking about something else, and Steve let the warm rush of his voice roll over him, wrap him up, soothe him, but his mind drifted back to that place back there. That cool green quiet, that leafy canopy, that way-too-sharp turn. The ‘Cuda was fast. _Really_ fast. It would be easy. Easy to just punch the gas, take his hands off the wheel, and let go.**

**And it was pretty. So pretty there. Who wouldn’t want their last few moments to be in a pretty place? If it couldn’t be their lover’s face, who wouldn’t want the last thing they saw to be nature’s beauty? If it couldn’t be their lover’s voice, who wouldn’t want the last thing they heard to be birdsong? Who wouldn’t want peace? Who wouldn’t want quiet? Who wouldn’t want solitude? If Tony went first, if Steve had to follow him, he knew that’s what _he_ wanted.**

**He drove past it now. He didn’t slow down, didn’t stop, but the place had lost none of its potent poignancy for him. In fact, it had gained more. Now that Tony was in the hospital, fighting for his own life, Steve felt the draw of this place even more. He’d called Clint on his way out of the hospital, told him to hold Ross until he got there. He’d spoken to Wanda next. Bucky was keeping an eye on their guest. Steve didn’t feel the need to talk to him. Bucky knew what he was doing.**

**He drove for another hour, to a place as far-removed from that _other_ place as possible. Except the solitude. That was the same. This had none of the natural beauty, though. This was nothing but a crumbling tangle of concrete and steel. An old warehouse in a sea of old warehouses awaiting demolition. There was a huge tin sign bolted to the sagging chain-link. Something about “Coming Soon!” Steve thought one of the words might be “estates”, but the sign was too faded to tell for sure. The rust was too invasive. The bullet-holes too prevalent. So, “Soon” was a bit misleading, then. Steve was glad.**

**He parked the car next to a motorcycle that he recognized as Bucky’s, and an old van that probably didn’t technically belong to anyone currently inside the building. He assumed it had been “borrowed” for the occasion.**

**The door had once been padlocked closed. The NO TRESPASSING signs had once been bright red. Now, the opposite was true of both. The door hung off its hinges. The sign was a weather-washed pink that was barely legible. Steve didn’t think his team had dislodged the door. He thought they’d just taken advantage of its current drunken state, and he did the same, slipping through the open door and inside the building.**

**The scent of dust and mold and age permeated the structure. Broken glass and rubble gritted under his feet. He could hear voices. They were soft, but he followed them, up a precarious iron stairway, one flight. Two. Steve stopped when he reached the fifth floor. The voices were clear now, and he stood in the still-shadowy stairwell, looking in, surveying the scene.**

**The sun slanted in from the windows, but it did nothing to cheer the room, it simply threw the squalor into sharp relief. It had probably been an office once. It was dry-walled, and an old, beat-up, metal desk sat askew in the corner. Clint sat on top of it, bow beside him, an arrow clasped loosely in his fist. Wanda and Bucky stood near the window-sill. The sun was in her hair, flaring red. It glinted off Bucky’s metal arm.**

**“I don’t know, kid,” he was saying.**

**“We can’t let him go. Not this time.”**

**“Our job was extraction. We did that. The rest is up to him.”**

**“There’s more to it.”**

**“That’s not our decision. It’s his.”**

**Clint’s eyes had remained firmly fixed on the other person in the room while Bucky and Wanda spoke. Now, he glanced at them. “Why don’t you just ask him?” They all turned to Steve. Clint nodded. “Hey, Cap.”**

**Steve said nothing, just returned the nod, and came into the room.**

**Ross was tied to a chair. His hair and clothing were disheveled, streaked with dust. A cut on his cheek dribbled a deep red, but the cut was small, just a scratch really, and aside from that, he was unmarked.**

**He glared at Steve as he came closer. His eyes bored into Steve’s blues with a fierce malice. He didn’t struggle, made no sound against the gag in his mouth, just watched Steve come nearer. Stared up at him when he stopped in front of the chair.**

**“Hello, General Ross,” Steve said. “How are you?”**

\---

“So, Rogers sent you as his little errand-boy, did he?” Ross asked.

Tony bristled, but kept himself under control. He adopted his count-to-five technique again. “No. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I told him I’d send his letter.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because I wanted to see your face when you read it,” Tony answered truthfully.

He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. The rain dotted it, but Ross _was_ carrying an umbrella, so it didn’t do much damage.

Ross held it in his hand, looked at the chicken-scratch writing spelling out his name on the front, his return address, Steve’s name and address in the top left. There was even a stamp on it. Tony’s good, sweet, conscientious man had put it on the envelope himself that morning, marveling at the fact that he didn’t have to lick it to make it stick.

“We always had to lick ‘em in the old days,” he said, smiling at the memory.

“Well, now you get to save that tongue for better things,” Tony said, and Steve took him in his arms and used his tongue for better things.

“So, you have read it, then?” Ross asked.

“Yeah. Of course, I have.”

“And did you read mine?”

Tony nodded. He had. Eventually. Although, there hadn’t been much to it. Just a plea for a meeting. They were both succinct men, Ross and Steve. They had that in common.

Ross’ lips twisted into a cruel smile. “Well, you two _are_ very cosy, aren’t you? Two peas in a pod.”

“Yes. We are. You knew that last time we spoke.”

“Do you ever stop to wonder how your mother and father would feel about this? About _you?_ About _him_? Together? Don’t you realize how sickened they would be by the thought of that? The thought of you doing...whatever it is people like you do? How disgusted they would be to have a faggot for a son?”

Tony drew in a deep breath. Ross’ words were concentrated poison. They were designed to break him, to wound him, to bring him low. Ross was a brilliant tactician. He could read people. Find the chinks in their suits of armor. And even though he was wearing a hand-made Italian suit on the outside, Tony had always worn a suit of iron around his heart.

Thaddeus Ross was trying to pierce it. Tony couldn’t let him.

He exhaled as he did his countdown thing. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

“You know what, Ross?” Tony said. “Yeah. I _have_ thought about it. I’ve thought about it a lot, actually. And do you know what I really think?”

“I’m all ears.”

Tony took a step closer. “I don’t think they’d give fuck one. In fact, I think they’d be _happy_. Happy that someone finally made _me_ happy.”

“Even Howard?”

Tony nodded. “Yeah. Even Howard,” he said, and even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were true. Howard--yes, even Howard--would have been happy to see his only son a happy man, at last.

“And _are_ you happy, Stark?” Ross asked sincerely. “Are you really happy?”

“Yeah.” 

“And is he? Rogers? Is _he_ happy?”

Tony nodded again. “Yeah. He is.”

“Good,” Ross said, and smiled. It was warm, genuine, and for a moment, Tony thought Steve had been right, after all. Ross _had_ owed him. Ross wanted to say something nice.

It was only when the bullet punched through his stomach that he realized that had been a grave mistake. 

It didn’t hurt at first. At first, he had only felt an impact, and he thought maybe Ross had socked him in the gut. “What the-” he began, then the burning, searing pain, engulfed his midsection, and he felt his knees buckle. Tony sagged, and Ross caught him, caught him and eased him down onto the ground.

“Sh-sh-sh,” Ross soothed gently, lying him back on the cold, damp grass. “Don’t talk, Stark. I know that’s not in your nature, but just keep your mouth shut for a minute.”

The pain was intense, excruciating, like a raging fire had been kindled just inside his belly. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. He felt paralyzed, and all he could see was Ross. Thaddeus Ross’ smug face hovering over him. 

“St-Steve…” he choked. 

Ross frowned at him, and nodded his head in agreement. “Yes. I know. I wanted him, too. He should be here, not you.”

The rain fell harder. It fell on his face, into his eyes, mingling with the tears.

 _Steve_ , he thought. _Steve, I want you. Where are you?_

Ross took his hand, patted it in a consoling way. Tony’s own fingers tightened around it involuntarily, clamping down as the pain pulsed through his muscles. Ross looked at him, his eyes cruel and cold, as they considered the dying man before him. “But maybe this is better,” he said. “If he’s as in love as you seem to think, maybe this is perfect.” He chuckled. The sound was huge, grating in Tony’s pounding ears. “Or maybe not. You weren’t his first choice, were you, Stark? Not if what Mr. Zemo told me was true. It’s actually _Barnes_ I should have here with me, isn’t it. That would hit him hardest. _He’s_ the one Rogers really cares for, isn’t he? The one he’d die for? The one he’d choose?”

Blood, thick and red, bubbled out of Tony’s mouth as he sputtered for breath. “St-St-”

Ross held his hand, his teeth bared in a shark’s grin. “But you should be used to that, shouldn’t you? You’ve never been _anyone’s_ first choice. You’re just the consolation prize.” He looked him over, then twisted his hand out of Tony’s grip and stood up. He wiped his hand on his trousers as if he’d touched something dirty.

Thaddeus Ross spit on him.

It landed on Tony’s neck, right at the base of his throat. Steve kissed him there sometimes. Lovingly. Tenderly. “Not much of a prize,” Ross said.

Then he left.

Tony lay on the ground, eyes sightlessly staring up at the rain. The burning in his gut was immense. It was the world. His whole world, right now. _Steve,_ he thought desperately. _Steve, I’m scared. This is scary. Where are you?_

“Boss? Boss, can you hear me?”

A voice in his ear. He struggled toward it. Struggled to find the breath to speak. His hands scrabbled in the grass. The rain was cold. The ground was cold. Christ, he was suddenly so cold.

“J-Jarvis,” he muttered.

“It’s FRIDAY, boss. Hold on. I’ve contacted medical personnel. They’re coming.”

“Jarvis?”

“Hold on.”

“Steve?”

“Stay with me.”

“St-”

“Stay--”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my issue: I have always had a bit of a crush on William Hurt. Ever since I saw "Broadcast News" as a wee slip of a girl and he pulls Holly Hunter's chair toward him and her head falls back and she gasps and...but I digress. I sometimes feel bad writing bad-guy Ross. But, then I think, oh, come on, William Hurt's a tough guy. He can take it. I hope so! That wasn't important. Just a side-note. Plus, I just like thinking about William Hurt sometimes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so i reworked this a little, and here is the result. Sorry I haven't updated for awhile, but my previous shambles became shamblier, and I lost my Wi-Fi so I haven't been able to get much done. Also, I wrote this on my phone. I HATE doing that, so if the format is fucked up, or you spot any mistakes, please forgive them!

It was hot.

Why was it so damn hot?

_What is the full name of the play commonly called "Hamlet"?_

**Hamlet, Prince of Denmark**

It's so fucking _hot_ in here.

_Define "character foil"._

**A character whose actions and/or traits are almost the exact opposite of another character.**

Hot. So goddamn hot. 

_List elements of revenge tragedy and explain how "Hamlet" fits into each of them._

**In revenge tragedy, there is a plot for vengeance--**

Steve ran a hand through his hair. He sighed harshly. Why was his stomach so upset? He knew the answers. He had studied really hard. Tony had helped him, going over character lists, quizzing him on quotations and definitions. He'd made him cup after cup of espresso--that Steve dutifully drank even though he didn't want to--then, when Steve started getting tired and irritable, took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom. He laid him down on the bed, told him not to move--that he wasn't _allowed_ to move--then spent the night slowly and methodically taking him apart, then keeping him as close to the edge as he could for as long as he could. By the time Tony finally let him come, Steve was a sweaty, shuddering, panting mess. But he was better. He felt better.

"You're so good, baby," Tony whispered, curling against him and stroking his hair. "So perfect. I love you so much."

Steve let out a long breath, kissed Tony's shoulder, kissed his neck, held him tight. "Thank you, Tony," he sighed into his skin. "I needed that. Thank you."

"Glad to be of service," Tony said.

Steve laughed low in his throat. "Yeah, well, you can service me anytime you want."

"Anytime I want? That's a dangerous amount of power you're giving me, Rogers."

"I trust you," Steve said, and pulled him in to kiss his mouth.

Tony kissed back, soft and warm. "So good," he repeated.

But Steve wasn't good. Not right now. And he didn't know why.

_Maybe I'm coming down with something._

For anyone else, that might have been a consideration. 

He drummed his fingers on his thigh. It was so _hot_. And his stomach hurt. Steve looked back down at his paper. The words swam before his eyes. He blinked and rubbed them.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

_It can wait,_ he thought, and tried to refocus on his final. _It has to wait._

_How does Hamlet's position in the second revenge plot relate to the dual nature of humankind?_

Steve's phone vibrated again.

He was going to throw up.

There was no way around it.

Why was it so fucking _hot?_

_Buzzbuzzbuzz_

Steve jumped to his feet.

"Are you alright, Mr. Rogers?"

Steve shook his head. His phone was vibrating again. His hands were shaking. He was sick. It was _boiling_ in here.

"No," he muttered. "No. No, I'm sorry. I-I have to-I have to go."

He left his paper, his pens, his books. He grabbed his jacket out of habit, and pawed his phone out of his pocket as he left the murmuring, whispering room.

Four missed calls. Seven texts.

_WHERE ARE YOU??_

He pressed four on his speed-dial, groped the keys out of his pocket, dropped them, then picked them up with hands that shook like leaves on a quaking tree.

"Steve, where are you? I've been calling and calling!" Nat. Scared.

"What is going on?"

"You need to come. Right now."

"Has there been another attack?"

"No," she said. "It's Tony. He's been shot."

\----

Steve's head rocked to the side. The sound of the palm connecting with his cheek was a flat, loud clap.

" _Where were you_?" Pepper cried shrilly. "How could you let this happen?"

"Pepper--"

"No, Stephen," she said, rounding on Strange. "Don't defend him. You and Tony, you're always defending him. I do not want to hear it!"

Her face was red and puffy with tears and grief.

Steve had barely gotten to the hospital, had not seen Tony, or even spoken to anyone about him yet. He had no idea what she meant, but he knew with absolute certainty that she was right. Whatever it was, whatever had happened, Pepper was right to be angry--Steve _should_ have been there. Steve _should not_ have let it happen.

"If he dies, I swear to god I'll kill you," she said, and Steve nodded.

"If he dies, you won't need to, Miss Potts. I promise you that."

Steve left Doctor Strange to comfort her, and went to the nurse's station. 

"I'm Steve Rogers," he said. "Tony Stark was brought in earlier, um-" He stopped, ran a hand through his hair, unsure of how to continue. Nat had been tearful and frantic on the phone, repeating _Tony's been shot, Steve, get here, right now,_ and that's all he could think of. Was that what you said? When your partner was shot? _Tony's been shot. Here I am.?_ The nurse looked at him expectantly. 

Then there was a hand on his arm, a voice in his ear. "This way, Steve."

Strange grasped his elbow and led him down the hallway. Steve looked back over his shoulder. Rhodey was there with Pepper, holding her and rubbing her back. How were they all here so fast? he wondered. How were they all here when he, Tony's partner, was just finding out?

_Stupid,_ he thought. _Christ, Steve, you're so stupid. "How could you let this happen?" She's right. She's so right._

"What happened to him?" Steve asked, feeling even more stupid that had to ask such a basic question when everyone else seemed to know.

"He was shot."

Steve's fingers rolled into involuntary fists. He knew _that_ much. "Yeah," he said with great patience, "but what _happened_ to him?"

Strange stopped them in the hallway and leaned against the wall. He looked weary, bags under his eyes, face drawn and pale. Steve would have felt bad for him, but his great reserves of patience were starting to run dry. He was holding on--just barely--because he had to. He had to hold on to his control, his stoic, almost icy demeanor, because if he didn't, he would simply run mad. He couldn't do that. Tony needed him to stay calm. Tony needed him to stay strong, and so he did, even though all of mind, body, and soul was shrieking behind that extremely thin veneer of cool calm he had affected.

But it was beginning to crack now. And if he didn't get some answers soon, he couldn't be held responsible for what happened.

"Doctor Strange," he said quietly, "you need to tell me what's going on, right now."

"They found him in Central Park," Strange said. "FRIDAY called in medical after he was shot, and they arrived on the scene, stabilised him as much as they could, then transported him here. When they couldn't reach you, they called Pepper. She called Colonel Rhodes. Natasha found out somehow--I'm not exactly sure how--and met us here."

That was all very good information, but Steve still couldn't help but think the main point was being glossed over.

"Doctor Strange," he said, "what happened?"

Strange sighed. "Thaddeus Ross," he said. "It looks like Thaddeus Ross shot him in the stomach and left him to die."

Steve Rogers saw red, and for a little while, the only thing he knew, was that Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross was going to die.

\----

Four hours.

Tony was in surgery for four hours.

And for four hours, Steve sat silently going crazy. 

The room filled up with people as the time passed. Steve knew some of them--Bruce and Natasha. Peter, May, and Happy, a couple people from Stark Industries he had met over the years. But there were a lot he didn't know, too. A lot who were strangers to him, but seemed to know Rhodey or Pepper. They went to them and embraced them, kissed them, held them. Pepper let them cry on her shoulder. Rhodey shook a lot of hands, accepted a lot of pats on the arm or shoulder.

Steve sat in the corner. He didn't watch what was happening around him, but he was aware of it. Natasha and Bruce sat with him, one on either side, bookending him, propping him up between them. He chewed his nail. He fidgeted. He refused every attempt at conversation. His mind was blank. Carefully, _deliberately_ blank. If he thought, he _would_ go crazy. He knew that. So, he shut off the thinking. He could do that. Over the years, he'd _had_ to do that. If he wanted to continue to exist, sometimes the thinking was unnecessary. More--it was dangerous.

"Are you hungry, honey?" Natasha asked, and Steve shook his head. "Do you want coffee? Or a soda?"

"No."

There were eyes on him. He could feel them. He looked up and met Pepper's steady gaze. She didn't hate him. Steve didn't think she was quite capable of hatred--she was too good for that--but she would never like him. Steve understood. He really did. Thought, in fact, she was hugely generous for the civility she was able to muster whenever they were in the same room together. He was, after all, the "other man". He always had been. The shadow in the corner. That dark presence that had always loomed over the relationship she and Tony had.

He wondered now how much her objection to Tony being part of the Avengers had to do with the danger, and how much had to do with _him_. The trust and closeness that he and Tony had to have between them when they were in battle, had brought them closer than they would have ever been if they had just met on a street corner and struck up a conversation. Didn't it? Would they still be the same now if they hadn't put themselves so completely in the other's hands in those life and death situations so often? 

What if they _had_ just met somewhere? What if they'd bumped into each other in line for the movies or at the grocery store? They called it a "meet cute". Yeah, Steve knew what that was. Clint and Bruce both had a fondness for romantic comedies, so Steve knew all about it. 

What if Steve had left his wallet home one day at Starbucks and the handsome, dark-haired stranger behind him in line stepped up and said, "Just put it on my tab," and smiled. What if, when Steve thanked him, the stranger said, "Thank me by sitting here with me for a minute. I've got a date, but he's late. Keep me company?" What if they talked for hours, the conversation easy and light and fun, and when Steve walked him home, Tony--because, of course, his name was Tony. What a perfect name was that for a rom-com guy?--held his hand? What if, at Tony's door, Steve said he was glad Tony's date had been late, and then Tony laughed and said, "I didn't really have a date, baby. I just wanted you to stay." And then, what if Tony had kissed him? Would they be here now, if that's the way things had happened? Would they be together now? Would they be married in every way but the most legal one, and spend every day laughing and arguing, and every night lying together in a tangle of arms, and legs, and exploring fingers, and soft, gentle lips? Would they be what they were to each other?

Steve didn't know. He didn't think Pepper knew either, but he was pretty sure she had wondered. He thought she might be wondering that very thing right now. 

Steve stood up. He couldn't sit still anymore. It was too hot in here, too crowded. Tony knew so many people. So many people loved him. He'd touched so many lives.

Steve couldn't stand it. Didn't feel worthy to be here among them. Not when he could have stopped this from happening. Not when this was his fault.

"Honey, where are you going?"

"Just outside. I need some air."

"I'll go with you."

"No. No, it's okay. I just need a minute."

He walked out the door and sat down on the step leading out of the hospital. He put his head in his hands.

God, what the fuck _was_ this?

Twelve hours ago, he'd been lying in bed with Tony wrapped around him, all clinging arms and slow, comforting heartbeat. Twelve hours ago, he'd held the world in his hands, and now it was falling apart. Everything was falling apart.

"Cap."

Steve looked up, and for some reason, was totally unsurprised. He hadn't really known why he'd come outside, why he'd come out the side door and not the front entrance, but he knew now. He knew as soon as he saw Clint sitting on the railing a little way down from the door. He knew. "Hey, Clint."

"How are you holding up?"

Steve shook his head. "I'm not."

"Didn't think so."

Clint hopped off the railing and came down the wheelchair ramp to where Steve was sitting. He sat down on the step beside him. He didn't say anything else, but he put his hand on the back of Steve's neck. The gesture was so warm and unexpected, Steve felt like crying. He leaned into him, put his head on Clint's shoulder. 

They sat that way for awhile, Clint giving him his support, Steve taking it in. This was different from Nat's comfort, different from anything he'd ever experienced. He and Clint were friends--good friends--but they'd never been _best_ friends. Steve thought that might have something to do with Natasha. That slight jealousy both he and Clint seemed to have when it came to her. At one point or another, they had both laid claim to her, even though neither had truly owned her. Steve didnt think any man--not even Bruce--could claim to have owned Natasha Romanov. But it had always been there, nonetheless. That feeling of friction between them, of wanting to be the one she loved most. Now, that was gone. Now, sitting here with him, all Steve felt was comfort and understanding. And he felt the wall he had put up crumble a little. That was good. That felt good.

"Have you been inside?" Steve asked and Clint shook his head.

"No. I've just been out here. Waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

Clint squeezed the back of his neck gently. "For you."

Steve sat up and looked at his friend. And he _was_ his friend. The jealousy forgotten, buried under a wave of kinship. "Why?"

Clint looked back steadily. Understanding bloomed in Steve's heart. He closed his eyes with the force of that understanding, and he loved Clint for it. Might have _fallen_ in love a little, if he were not so irrevocably tied to Tony Stark for all eternity.

"I won't do it if you don't want me to," Clint said. "But I owe you. For bringing Laura and the kids back. And-" he shifted a little, seemed uncomfortable, then settled again and looked into Steve's eyes. There was a look in them Steve had never seen there before. A darkness. And Steve knew what he was thinking of, what he was remembering. Because Steve had those memories too. Memories of being outside himself. Memories of being locked inside the cage of his mind, unable to control his thoughts or actions, and maybe he fell a little in love with Clint, after all. "-And he shouldn't get away with it," Clint went on. "Any of it. He suffered in prison, maybe, but did he suffer enough?"

"I don't know," Steve answered.

"Do they ever suffer enough? _Can_ they suffer enough?"

"I don't know that either."

"I can find him," Clint said. "Wanda wants to help, too. And Bucky."

"The three of you worked this out? When?"

"We talked about it before. When you were in The Raft. We almost did it then."

"You weren't supposed to know I was in there."

"We didn't," Clint said. "We just knew you weren't _here._ We just knew you weren't where you were supposed to be." He squeezed the back of Steve's neck again. "We just knew you weren't with us."

Steve bit his lip. He felt like crying again. He'd thought he'd worked through all his feelings of being in The Raft a long time ago, but having Clint talk about it made him realize there were still things he couldn't get over. And knowing he'd been thought about while he was gone made his heart simultaneously heavier and lighter. It was a strange feeling, but he welcomed it. Welcomed that heaviness. That lightness. Because it meant love. It all meant love. 

"I missed you guys," he said finally. "While I was in there. I missed you all."

"We missed you too, Cap."

"Would we kill him? Is that what you had in mind?"

Clint shook his head. Not saying no, just that he didn't know. "I think we'd figure that out when the time came."

  
  


_Tony blinks up at him, runs his hand through Steve's sleep-touseled hair, kisses his spot under Steve's right ear. "Morning, baby."_

_"Don't wanna get up."_

_Tony laughs, soft and sleepy. "That's_ my _line."_

_"Then say it."_

_"Can't. Another thrilling day at Stark Industries."_

_Steve tugs him closer, buries his face in Tony's hair. "No. Stay home. Call in sick."_

_"Pep won't buy the old 'I'm too sick to come to work' thing. She never does." Tony sits up, ignoring Steve's whine of protest. "Plus,_ you _have a test today, mister."_

_"You can call me in sick, too."_

_Tony groans, covering his face with his palms, and Steve takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around Tony's middle. He rests his head on his thigh, his eyes closed. "Please?" Steve asks. "Come on. I'm not asking for much. Just a day. Just one day. Stay in bed with me."_

_Tony's fingers find their way into his hair, and Steve sighs. It's nice. So, so nice here in the quiet early morning hour with Tony's hand in his hair, petting him, making him feel special, like he's the best thing in the world. And_ that's _ridiculous, of course, because_ Tony _was the best thing in the world. The most perfect thing. The only thing._

_"Please?" Steve presses. "I just want to be with you today."_

_"Your final-"_

_"-Can wait."_

_"I don't think that's the way it works, baby."_

_"Then fuck it. I don't care. Just stay with me."_

_Tony's hand stills in his hair. "Steve, what's going on with you?"_

_He shakes his head against Tony's thigh, tightens his arms around his waist. "Don't know," he says, and it's true. He doesn't know. Doesn't know_ if _anything is going on with him. All he knows is that he wants to stay home. And that he wants Tony to stay home. He feels like everything outside these four walls is unimportant today. Like the only things that matter are here,_ right here, _and he doesn't want to lose it. Doesn't want to go even one minute--one_ second-- _without it today._

_"Stay with me, Tony. Don't go anywhere today."_

_"I have to," Tony says quietly. His hand starts moving through Steve's hair again. Through his hair, over his neck, his shoulder, his arm, then back to his hair again. "It's okay, baby," he says. "I'll be home early. We can have dinner. Watch a movie." He bends and presses a kiss to Steve's temple. "I promise we'll spend all day in bed tomorrow, 'kay?"_

Tomorrow will be too late, _he thinks, but doesn't say because that sounds crazy. That would_ be _crazy. What difference does it make? Twelve little hours? In twelve hours, Tony will be home again. He will be home, and they will be right here, lying together in each other's arms just like they are right now, and this day will be over, and this strange feeling will be gone. This feeling that says he's about to lose everything._

_"Hey. Okay, baby? Sound good?"_

_Steve nods. It_ does _sound good._

_It just doesn't sound true._

  
  


"Do it," Steve said. "Find him, and contact me when you've got him. We'll go from there."

"You got it, Cap."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are getting closer to the end. One more chapter, I think (maybe two, we'll see how it shakes out) then after that, I think there's one more story. I really do think that will be the last one. I am going to try and post it in March. That will mark the one-year (!!!!!!) anniversary of me starting to write this series.  
> Also, quick shout-out to my Shakespeare professor for the questions on Steve's final. I lifted them directly from one of my own exams. And, yes, I am a huge nerd who kept a lot of my old schoolwork. And yes, I sometimes look at them when I'm feeling insecure about myself to remember that I can be smart sometimes. Like I said...huge nerd over here.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing on my phone again...ugh.

Steve drug a chair in front of Ross and sat down. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, brow furrowed. He sighed. "Why did you do that?" he asked quietly.

Ross said nothing. There was a gag in his mouth, but it was nothing really, just a perfunctory scarf tied around his head and resting inside his mouth. He could have spoken, and they both knew it. If he'd tried, Steve would have immediately taken the gag away, and they both knew that, as well. This was about control. Who had it. Who would give it away first.

They both knew that, too.

Bucky, Clint, and Wanda were still in the room. Steve didn't ask them to leave. They would have if he'd asked, but he didn't. This was for them too. For all of them, from Tony on down, because Ross had fucked with them all. Had interfered with them all. Had hurt them all.

"Did you plan it that way?" Steve asked. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried well. The others heard every word. Even across the room, next to the window, Bucky and Wanda could hear just fine. Wanda reached out and touched Bucky's hand. He took it and held it, comforting her with that simple touch.

Ross continued to say nothing. He just looked at Steve. His eyes were blue. Not like Steve's. Not that clear, clean, oceanic blue that had so fascinated Tony Stark and stole his heart from the very beginning, no, they weren't  _ that  _ blue. Ross' were more like hardened steel. Arresting instead of romantic. Hard instead of deep. But Steve could see the capacity for love in them even now. Steve could see what Ross' wife had probably found attractive about them. Even though Steve's own personal preference was warm, whiskey brown, he could see why Mrs. Ross had fallen for those captivating blues.

He looked into them now, or rather, looked  _ at  _ them. Because Ross wasn't letting him in. 

Control. 

Steve nodded as if he had answered. "Mm," he hummed. "So, just a whim, then.  _ Not  _ something planned." Ross' mouth twitched, and Steve felt a moment's brief elation. He leaned back in the chair, smiled a little. "Sloppy."

Now, something flickered in those eyes. Steve thought it was involuntary, but the elation remained. Ross wasn't going to win. Not this time. Steve wouldn't-- _ couldn't-- _ let that happen.

"Bruce told me a little about you, you know," Steve said. "He told me about some of the shit you pulled with him. But Bruce is a good man. He lets things go. He has to because he has something to protect and keep safe. But you don't let things go, do you, Ross? You don't know how."

Steve stood up. He took hold of the chair he was sitting in and moved it back. Clint watched him. He was still holding the arrow in his hand. He twirled it in his fingers almost like he was bored, but Steve could tell he was ready when he was needed. Steve nodded at him, and Clint nodded back, an unspoken acknowledgement between them. Steve turned his head to look at the pair by the window. Wanda lifted her chin. Bucky frowned, but he nodded.  _ I don't like this,  _ that frown said.  _ But do it. If you need to, do it. _

"I don't like hurting people," Steve said.

He took off his flannel shirt. "My big, sexy lumberjack," Tony had said once when Steve wore it. He then swooned dramatically, throwing himself bonelessly forward. Steve had been holding a couple bags of groceries, and he dropped them so he could catch Tony. 

"My god, Tony, there were eggs in there!"

Tony laughed with dark, shameless ease. "Who gives a fuck about eggs? Take me, baby."

"Take yourself back to the store and buy more eggs."

Tony kissed him, running his hands all over Steve's arms and back, making Steve hot, making him  _ melt _ . Tony climbed up him, like a cat climbing a tree, and then his legs were hooked around Steve's waist, and Steve was carrying him with ease, and they didn't talk any more after that. Steve walked them into the house with Tony's hands all over him, his mouth all over him. They only made it as far as the living room couch, but that was far enough. That couch had seen a lot of action. Steve knew it could take it. They left the bags of groceries outside, the broken eggs included, and the next morning when Tony bitched about no Saturday morning pancakes, Steve shrugged and kissed him. "You need eggs for pancakes, Stark."

He lay the shirt over the back of his chair. He was just wearing a t-shirt now, and it fit snugly over his muscled chest and arms. He was back to 185. His time at the mental hospital and The Raft had taken a lot out of him, mentally and physically, but he was mostly back now. Solid, hard, muscular. He felt good. Tony had helped with the mental and emotional side, but Steve had done the physical part all by himself.

"Hurting people has never come easy to me." Steve sighed, looking down at Ross. "And I would have been willing to let it go if you'd waited, and just come for  _ me  _ later _.  _ But you didn't do that, did you?"

Steve leaned into Ross' space. Ross didn't flinch, but his eyes seemed darker. Steve pulled the gag from between Ross' lips. "You should have just left us alone," he whispered, and let his fist fly.

Ross didn't make a sound as Steve's fist connected with his cheek. He was expecting it, bracing himself for the impact, and as much as he wanted to unleash hell on this guy, Steve pulled his punch. Instead of shattering his cheekbone, Steve hit him just hard enough to hurt, not disfigure.

Ross could tell.

"Come on, Rogers," Ross spat. "You've got more than that in you. Make it hurt, lover-boy. Make me bleed."

Steve said nothing. He sent his hand out again, the back of it connecting solidly with Ross' opposite cheek.

Ross laughed bitterly. "God, you're pathetic. I don't understand why Fury put such stock in you. Surely, you weren't sucking his dick, too? Or is that how you made your way up the chain of command? You fuck your way to the top, Rogers? How  _ did _ you get to be a captain so quickly?"

"Steve--"

"Back off, Buck," Steve said quietly, and Bucky did. No questions asked. 

Steve stepped closer to Ross, reached out and smoothed his hair off his forehead. Ross flinched back at Steve's gentle touch. Steve knew immediately he could unnerve Ross the most by doing it this way, by being gentle, by touching him softly, but the thought made Steve almost physically ill. He would never-- _ could  _ never--use softness and sweetness as a weapon. How could he ever look Tony in the eye again if he did that? How could he look  _ himself  _ in the eye? Those things were a gift, not a tactic _.  _ Perhaps only people who had went without it for long stretches of time knew that, though. Perhaps they were the only ones who thought that way. Steve didn't know for sure, all he knew was that  _ he _ felt that way.

He let his hand fall away, and sighed again. "I'm not going to ask you why again, Ross," he said.

"That's because you already know why," Ross said, his lip lifting in a canine sneer. "You can't tell me  _ you _ haven't felt like doing it before, Rogers. We know better, don't we? You might be Stark's whore now, but-"

Steve punched him again, harder, faster, once, twice, three times, his fists flying out on their own, his body reacting before his mind even registered what was happening.  _ Whore? How  _ dare _ he?  _ It was almost as if that word had short-circuited the connection between his hands and his brain, and when his brain finally  _ did _ get the message, it was completely on-board. It lit up like a Christmas tree, every warning light flashing red.  _ Whore? What?  _ Whore?  _ Me and Tony are  _ married,  _ for Christ's sake.  _ They liked a little dirty talk. Tony was particularly good at it, but Steve could hold his own, and they indulged in some fantasies, might even have used the word themselves, playfully, once or twice, but what was said in their marriage-bed was between  _ them.  _ The thought of someone else calling him Tony's  _ whore  _ was so foreign, so unreal, it was almost close to sacrilege in Steve's eyes and heart. The mere thought made him wild with rage. Steve was no more Tony's whore than Mrs. Ross was--

Oh.

He tried pulling his last punch--was it the seventh? Eighth, by now?--but was too late. It landed solidly against Ross' side, and Steve felt the sickening crunch of a breaking rib. Ross coughed out a wheezing breath, then hung limp over the rope securing him to the chair. His breath came in weak, shallow pulls. His head hung, his hair a sweaty tangle.

Steve fell back a step, panting a little, himself. He closed his eyes, trying to get himself under some kind of control. He ran a hand through his own hair, then glanced over his shoulder. "Bucky, will you get me some water, please?"

Bucky was beside him in seconds with a bottle of water in his hand. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. Steve could read his look.

_ Stop, Steve. Enough's enough.  _

__ Steve took the bottle from his friend's hand, then clasped it on his own for a second. "I know," he said in a low voice. "I'm done."

Bucky put his hand--his soft, flesh and blood hand--against Steve's cheek, held it there, then smacked it twice, lightly. Steve smiled. The anger was gone. He wasn't sure what he was feeling now, but that flash of anger that had caused him to beat Ross bloody was gone.

"You okay?" Bucky asked. 

"Yeah. I'm okay now." He looked at Ross. Looked at him hanging against his bonds, head lolling forward, blood and spit dripping from his lip. "I think we're about done here. Just another minute. Okay?"

"You sure?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah. One more minute."

"Okay," Bucky said. "One more minute."

Steve hooked his foot around the leg of his chair and drew it close to Ross again. He sat down, then leaned forward again. "Here, General. Drink some of this."

He lifted Ross' chin with one hand and tipped the water bottle against his lip with the other. Some spilled out the side of his mouth and pattered onto his chest. Steve wiped his chin gingerly. Ross' cheek was already swelling, both eyes already turning an ugly purple. His nose was a bloody ruin.

"Careful, Cap," Clint said. "An injured snake is still poisonous."

Steve nodded. "'Kay."

Ross coughed again, but his eyes were a bit clearer. They tried to focus on Steve. He closed them, and tried again.

"Can you hear me, General?"

This time, Ross was able to focus. He turned his head, spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor, then tipped his head back on his neck, breathing deeply through his open mouth. He could still look at Steve, though. Through his cracked lids, he could see Steve just fine. 

"That's more like it, Rogers," he croaked. "You just need the right motivation, don't you?" He barked out a harsh, pained laugh. "Who knew you'd be okay with being called a whore, but being called  _ Stark's  _ whore would send you over the edge?" 

"I wasn't okay with it."

Ross closed his eyes as another coughing spell wracked his lungs, then opened them again. "You didn't hit me until I mentioned him. I hope it's shame that made you react that way. It should be."

"I'm not ashamed of anything. Especially not Tony. He's the best thing that ever happened to me."

"You're sick," Ross muttered. "If that's what you believe, you really are sick. Although, in a way, I suppose I understand. All that money...must be nice. And all you've got to do is let him stick it in you from time to time." He laughed weakly. "I hope you held out for hazard pay, though. I hear he was a very easy lay for a very long time. Wouldn't look good for America's favorite icon to be riddled with STDs."

Steve sighed and looked at Ross sadly. He wasn't angry. That really was gone, but the words still stung, though, just like they were supposed to. They felt like a thin rawhide strap whickering against his skin. It wasn't enough to scar. Just enough to really hurt.

"Do you really believe the things you're saying? Or are you just trying to push me?" he asked. 

Ross rolled his head down. The bruising was more pronounced now, the swelling getting worse. Soon, his eyes would probably be closed for a few days, but they were open now. Open, aware,  _ hard. _ "Both, Captain Rogers," he said.

Steve nodded again. "I don't have to explain myself to you," he said, and his voice was soft. Soft like a breeze stirring through cherry blossoms. "But, what Tony and I have is real. I think you know that. I think you know, because as hard as you are, you  _ do _ know what love is, don't you, General?"

"Shut up, Rogers."

"You recognize it because you've had it before. "

"Shut up."

"Lydia? Isn't that your wife's name?"

"Shut the fuck up, Rogers."

"Tony said he heard she went back to Iowa," Steve said, and his voice was still gentle. Almost kind. He wasn't trying to hurt Ross--at least not at the moment--this wasn't about pain right now. Not for Steve. This was about decency. "I'm sorry, General. I'm sure she'll come-"

Ross suddenly threw himself back in his chair, lifted his legs and pistoned them forward into Steve's bad left knee. It had healed up mostly over the last few years, but it still twinged a little on cold mornings and rainy afternoons. It would never be perfect again, and it hurt when Ross' feet hit it. A lot.

The chair fell back, and Ross whooped as the breath was knocked out of him. His head connected with the concrete floor with a loud crack. His eyes fluttered as consciousness danced just out of reach. 

Clint was on his feet, an arrow poised in Ross' face so fast Steve had barely registered his movement. Steve envied his eerie, silky speed. But he admired it, too. Covetously. 

"Say the word," Clint said. "Just say it, Cap, and this'll be over."

"Steve-"

"It's okay, Buck," Steve said again, getting to his feet. He bent his knee, favoring it a little, but it was okay. It hurt, but it was okay. It could have been worse, anyway. It could always be worse.

He reached out and touched Clint's hand. He made sure his movement was slow and deliberate. Made sure Clint saw it coming. "Don't," he said, resting his hand on the archer's. "Clint. Please, okay? Please don't."

Clint's muscles lost none of their tension. Steve could feel them thrumming like tightly-wound wire. "He can't get away with it, Steve," he said. 

Steve shook his head, put a little pressure on Clint's hand. "He's not going to. Don't worry. He's going to pay."

Steve pressed Clint's hand a bit harder,and he lowered the arrow. He turned his head, his eyes boring into Steve's. "You're not going to kill him." It wasn't a question. 

"No."

"What are you going to do?"

Steve squeezed Clint's hand then let it go. He held his own out to Wanda. "Come here, red," he said.

She came to him with no hesitation. Crossed the room, took his offered hand, and let him draw her near. Bucky came behind her, and the four of them, the archer, the witch, the super soldier, and the assassin, stood together looking down at the man who had tried to break them. The man who had stopped at nothing to make himself their enemy.

Steve brushed his thumb against her wrist, touched the deep fall of her hair. "You don't have to do this, red," he said softly. "There are other ways."

"No," she said. "I want to do it. I wanted to do it a long time ago."

Steve frowned, troubled. "You'll do it like we discussed, though, right?"

Wanda looked down at Ross. He still lay on his back, still bound to the chair. A small puddle of blood had formed at the back of his head where it had connected with the floor, spreading like a red corona. His eyelids fluttered, but he was breathing regularly again. He'd be fine. Physically, he'd be fine.

"It's too good for him, Steve," she said. "After Tony, after  _ you,  _ after everything, what you want...it's too good."

Steve tightened his grip on her hand and looked at them all. His gaze traveled from one set of his friends' eyes to the next. "I know," he said. "I know that. But  _ we're  _ too good for the alternative." He met each of their eyes again. There was approval in Bucky's, resignation in Clint's, and indecision in Wanda's. "Right, guys? We're not murderers," he said. "We're Avengers."

"Wouldn't killing him be avenging us?"

"No. What we're doing, what you're going to do,  _ that _ will be vengeance. That will be enough." He looked at them. "Unless I'm wrong. If I'm wrong, tell me now. We're in this together."

There was moment of silence among them. A moment where they all considered the situation, and their place in it. A moment where they decided who they were once and for all. And who they wanted to be.

"I'm with you, Steve," Bucky said.

Clint snorted laughter and smiled a little. "Yeah, Cap. Me too. We're Avengers. Heroes, all, right? Here we come to save the day."

A warm light burned in Steve's chest. Up until that moment, he thought he would be out-voted. That he was wrong. And he would have went with their decision, because they  _ would  _ have been right. Even now, part of him thought they would have been right. 

He looked at Wanda through downcast eyes. "What do  _ you _ say, red?"

She didn't say anything for awhile. She just looked at Ross. He was beginning to stir. He made a guttural groan in the back of his throat. His hands clasped the arms of the chair, then loosened. He would be awake soon. 

"Wanda?"

She sighed, at last, and nodded. "Yes. Alright? Yes, I will do it your way." She gripped Steve's hand tightly, bearing down on it, and flashed hard eyes on him.  _ Warning  _ eyes. "Eventually," she said. 

Steve gazed at her, reading her thoughts as best he could. Finally, he nodded. He drew her into his arms, kissed her cheeks, then held her tight. "Do what you need to," he said into her ear so quietly the other two could not hear. They didn't need to. This was between them. "I trust you." She nodded her head against his chest, relishing his warmth and closeness just as much as he did. Her friend, her mentor, her father. Steve kissed her cheek again. "And you're right. Tony would think so, too. And he'd be proud. As proud as I am. Thank you. Just...just thank you."

Steve released her, and gave her his little half-smile. Tony's number one favorite thing in the entire world. Steve still didn't know that. Wanda didn't know that either, but she would have understood. It was in her top five. 

He turned to the other two. "Let's get him up. Let's finish this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again if the format looks wonky. Between work and other stuff I can't get to anywhere with decent Wi-Fi. One more chapter to go!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Kay, here we go again...

Steve washed his hands at a rest stop on his way back to the hospital. He was careful about getting the blood under his nails and in between his fingers. Careful about scrubbing it away from the creases in his palms. 

He didn't want to touch Tony with Ross' blood on his hands.

\---

_Clint and Bucky each hook an arm under Ross'. They pull him easily up, righting the chair and setting it on its legs. Ross lolls bonelessly while they do it, but he's muttering. He's waking up. It won't be long now._

_Steve wants him awake. He's no sadist, but Ross shot Tony. He_ shot _him. In cold blood. And left him to die in the exact spot that Steve himself_ had _died. So, yeah, Steve wants him awake. He wants him aware. He wants him to know what's happening. Wants him to be afraid._

_Maybe Steve is a bit of a sadist, after all._

_\---_

He climbed back into the 'Cuda and keyed the engine. It growled to life, and Steve patted the dashboard. He loved this car. He had loved the Bentley too, because it had been the car that had brought them to the cabin--brought them _home_ \--but there was something about the Hemi-Cuda that spoke to some deep, hidden part of himself. That loud, dark, somehow feline growl of the engine. The sleek lines. The midnight interior, the horses under the hood. He loved it. Loved driving it. Loved riding shotgun while Tony was driving it. It felt like the ultimate in both safety and danger at the exact same time. And that was why he loved it. It called to him. To that duality in his nature that Tony had always seen, always loved, always feared. That safety. That danger. It was him. And it was Tony, too. Because he was the same. Steve saw that duality in him too. In Tony's arms, he felt safe. In Tony's arms, he felt danger.

He loved it. He loved it and he feared it. He craved it and was repelled by it.

He recognized the near-insanity of his thoughts as he drove back the way he'd come, retracing his route back to the hospital and Tony, and as he neared that place, that shadowy, golden place on the road, that hair-pin turn, he took his phone out and called Natasha. 

"Where are you?" she asked as soon as she picked up.

"On my way there. How is he?"

"Alive."

Steve let out a breath and took his foot off the gas pedal. He'd had her at 120. He'd been sure. So fucking sure…

The car slowed--115. 110. 100. 90. 80. 70. An almost sedate 60. It was still way too fast to take the curve, but he did it. 

He was an excellent driver.

"Steve?"

"I'm here," he said.

"What about on your end? How is _he?"_

_\---_

_"Are you awake, General?" Steve asks. "Back with us?"_

_Ross opens his eyes, let's out a breath. He sags against the rope._

_"It's okay," Steve says. "You don't have to talk. Maybe it's better if you don't." Steve leans in a little, wipes some of the blood off Ross' cheek, then squats down on his haunches, putting them almost on eye-level. "I want you to know that I didn't want this," Steve says. "Any of this. I know what you think of me. That I'm just some freak. That I'm...an animal. And maybe you're right. Maybe I am." He looks down at his hands. They are covered in blood. His own, as well as Thaddeus Ross'. He clenches them into loose fists, remembering how gently Tony had once bandaged them. He thinks about how much he wants Tony to be awake to bandage them again this time. "But I want you to know I wouldn't have chosen this. Not for you. Or me." He glances over his shoulder. "Or_ them."

_Ross meets his eyes, at last. There's rage in them, cold, cruel bitterness, and something else, something that breaks Steve's heart a little, in spite of everything this man has done to his family. Pain. Hurt. Heartbreak._

_"You people took everything from me," Ross says. "My children. My wife. My career. So do it. Just do it, Rogers. Have your boy over there put an arrow in me. Or have the other one strangle me to death. They're capable. We all know it. Let them do it. I know you can't do it yourself, but let one of them. Please."_

_Steve stands up. He sighs. It's troubled, that sigh. Conflicted. But he thinks of Tony. Thinks of him in that hospital bed. Thinks of him lying on that grassy little hill in Central Park, bleeding out while the rain falls all around him._

_"Wanda," he says, and she comes to him. "Like we discussed. Alright?"_

_"Yes. In a little bit."_

_Steve touches her cheek. "Soon, though. Please? For me?"_

_She nods and folds his hand into hers. "Soon."_

_"What are you talking about?" Ross says, and while he's trying to hide it, Steve sees a flicker of fear in Ross' steely eyes. Hears it in his voice. "Rogers? What's happening?"_

_Steve turns back to him. He is still holding Wanda's hand. For comfort. Hers and his. "We didn't take anything from you, General," he says. "You gave it away." He squeezes Wanda's hand then releases it. "Go on, red," he says._

_\---_

"Alive."

There was a silence on Nat's end, and Steve let it play out. Let her interpret it however she liked. If she wanted clarity, she'd ask. At some point--maybe in a day, maybe in a year--she would ask, and he would tell her. They'd done it for her too, after all. Her, and Bruce, and everyone else. The family. 

"Is Clint with you?" she asked carefully.

"He was," Steve answered, matching her tone.

"But not now?"

Steve pushed the gas pedal a little. He set the speedometer at 90. He wanted to be there already. He wanted to be having this conversation in person. He wanted to start to put this day away and not have to think about it again for a very long time. 

He wanted her.

He wanted Tony.

"No," he answered. "Not now."

"Okay," Nat said, and sighed. "Where are you now?"

"Closer."

"Good. I want you."

Steve closed his eyes very briefly. Relief. Yes, that's what was making his chest hurt and his throat ache with unshed tears. Pure relief. "I want you too."

"Get here quick?"

"Quick as I can."

He pushed the 'Cuda up to 100, and everything flew by. The trees, the derelict, pock-marked road signs. One startled deer bolted into the woods as he passed, and soon there were outlying farms. Mailboxes on the side of the road. A few billboards. Then more houses, more buildings, and he was forced to slow down because there was a yellow sign that read "Children at Play", and no matter how badly he wanted to be at the hospital right this second, he would never do anything to endanger a child.

It was another frustrating, nerve-wracking, hair-pulling fifteen minutes before he pulled the car into the hospital parking lot. He got out and ran into the building. He didn't stop in the waiting room. He jostled past people, slowing now by necessity, and finally found Tony's door, opened it, and went inside.

Tony was still asleep. Some of the machinery was gone, though. The breathing tube was gone. Tony's lips were slack and chapped, but his chest was rising and falling regularly. 

"Steve."

"Nat? Is he…?"

And then he was in her arms, and she was clutching him close, and her breath was on his neck, her voice on his ear. "He's okay," she said. "They said he's going to be okay."

The tears broke free. The tears he'd been holding onto all day, and he collapsed against her, into her embrace, letting her hold him up, letting her support him and comfort him. Letting her hands, and her voice, and her _existence_ heal him. He kept his eyes on Tony, but for the moment, he gave everything else over to Natasha.

\---

_"You can leave us," Wanda says._

_Steve shakes his head. "I'm not leaving you alone with him."_

_"It's alright."_

_"No."_

_"What does she mean, Rogers?" Ross asks. There_ is _fear in his voice now. It's only a tremor, but it's there. It's there, and it's real. Real, genuine fear._

_Steve ignores him, keeping his eyes fixed on Wanda. Clint does not ignore him. He smacks Ross upside the back of his head. "Shut up, douchebag," he says. "Grown-ups are talking."_

_Steve ignores that too. So does Wanda._

_"It really is alright," she says, and puts a hand on Steve's chest. "I should be alone to do this right."_

_"No."_

_"Rogers. Rogers, for Christ's sake."_

_"I don't want to gag you again, man," Clint complains. "I think you licked my finger last time." He shudders dramatically. "You got your politician-y germs all over me."_

_"I'll do it," Bucky says, but Steve turns to them, at last._

_"It's okay," he says quietly. "Leave him alone for now."_

_Bucky looks between Steve and Wanda. "_ Should _we leave?"_

_"Yes." Wanda._

_"No." Steve._

_They speak at the same time, both of their voices firm and steady. Both strong. Their eyes meet, warring silently with one another._

Let me do this.

Not alone, red.

I can handle it.

I know, but…

Steve. 

…Fine. Alright? Fine.

_Steve draws her in and kisses her temple with an exasperated sigh. It is a fatherly sigh. He knows she can more than take care of herself. He knows she is actually the most powerful person in the room--in the_ world _, probably--but he can't help the protective feelings he holds for her in his heart. She isn't a child. But she is still his daughter._

_He cups her face in his hand, caresses her cheek with his thumb. "We'll be right outside the door," he says. "If you need us, call out, okay?"_

_Wanda's smile is sweet, her eyes very warm. "I will," she says, and Steve knows she won't need him, knows she's just indulging him, but he's okay with that. With both parts--the fact that she's strong, and the fact that she's kind. He loves both parts. He is proud of both parts._

_He pressed his forehead against hers and says, "I love you, red."_

_"I love you too."_

_When he releases her, Ross calls his name again. "Rogers. What is going on here? You have to tell me. I_ demand _that you tell me."_

_Steve grasps Bucky's arm and turns him toward the door. Motions for Clint to follow. "We'll wait out here. I don't think this will take long."_

_"Aye aye, Captain."_

_"Rogers? Barton? Where are you going?_ What _won't take long? Rogers?_ Barnes?"

_"What about after?"_

_"We'll see what state he's in and assess…"_

_"Rogers! Rogers, don't leave this room! Don't leave me here. Rogers…"_

_"...the situation and go from there. Decide on transport and a drop-off point."_

_"Rogers, no, please! Don't leave me alone with her!"_

_But they are alone now. They_ are _alone._

_Wanda moves with unhurried grace, stands in front of him. Ross is shaking in the chair, struggling against the ropes holding him. In spite of the expert quality of the knots holding him, they have loosened a bit during the last hour. Not enough to set him free, of course, just enough to give his abortive lunges a tiny bit of leeway. Enough to give his heart a burst of hope that this time he might break free. But he doesn't. He can't._

_"Shh," Wanda says, and Ross' eyes snap to hers now. The fear in them is obvious, but there's also defiance._

_"Get away from me," he snarls, lashing out with his feet._

_Wanda steps back easily._

_"Don't you come near me," Ross warns. He kicks out again, raging against the ropes to try and break free. "Stay away from me, you little heathen_ bitch."

_"You should be still now," Wanda says softly, and flicks her finger at him. Ross' entire body immediately freezes. His words die in his throat. The only thing still moving is his eyes, those steely blue eyes that set Lydia Ross' heart aflutter the moment they first lit on hers. They roll in their sockets, the whites very bright._

_Wanda moves in front of him again. She reaches out, just as Steve did, and brushes Ross' hair from his forehead. She trails one hand down the side of his face, then cups his cheek in her palm. There is a silver ring on her thumb. It had been Pietro's once. Now it belongs to her._

_"Shh," she soothes again, and allows her fingers to caress his skin. "Shh, General Ross, it's alright." She continues to touch him. Such soft, gentle strokes. Such tenderness. Wanda Maximoff has no compunctions about using those things. Why should she? Especially now? With him? Ross himself had told her her entire body was a weapon. It seems only fitting she use her entire arsenal now._

_His breath has quickened. It is very loud in the quiet room. Loud going into his nostrils, louder still coming back out. Wanda touches his cheek. His eyes roll in his paralyzed face._

_"Steve wants me to quiet your mind," she says. "You would feel nothing. Know nothing. There would be no pain. Only peace."_

_Ross' breathing becomes shaky. The look in his eye is fear. Only that. The defiance is gone. Only the fear remains._

_Wanda's fingers slip back into Ross' hair. It's heavy. Coarse. It feels nice in her hand, and she does it again. For herself. Not him._

_"I'm going to do what Steve wants, General Ross," she whispers. "I'm going to do it because Steve is one of the three best men I have ever known, and I love him."_

_She clenches her fingers into his hair in a tight, sudden fist. Ross makes a harsh, sobbing noise in the back of his throat. "I'm going to do something else first, though," she says. "Steve doesn't like it. He doesn't like the idea of anyone hurting. Not even you. Not even after everything you've done. That's just the way he is. His heart is too pure."_

_Wanda releases his hair. She raises her hands a little. Red mist surrounds them, swirling in a sinuous dance. A tear slips from Ross' eye._

_"Not like yours, General Ross," she says. "Or mine."_

_More tears fall from Thaddeus Ross' eyes. He looks up at her, pleading with her silently. Begging. But it means nothing to her._

_"How much longer, red?"_

_Steve. Calling her._

_She closes her eyes, a soft smile on her lips, her love for him emanating from her entire body. She has very few memories of her own father, but she misses the thought of him. She aches for Vision, and would slit her own wrists to rejoin Pietro, but Steve is here._

_Steve._

_She would do anything for him._ Will _do anything for him._

_Wanda's eyes open and fall on Ross' once more. The red mist swirls faster. "One more minute," she calls back._

_"'Kay."_

_Yes, she would do anything for Steve Rogers. But, she's going to do this for herself first._

_"I want you to know that you_ will _have peace, General. Your mind_ will _be quiet, just the way Steve wants. And it will be soon in terms of actual hours and days."_

_She moves her fingers, and the red swirls faster still, as if eager to begin its great work. Ross sobs again, his face a rictus of terror._

_"Yes," she croons. "Soon. Very soon. But until then…" She smiles sweetly and reaches toward him. A tendril of red mist encircles his head, bleeds into his pores. He jolts in his chair, the blue of his eyes suddenly gone, lost in the black sea of his pupils. "...there will be anything but peace. You will beg for peace by the end."_

_Wanda raises her other hand, puts one on either side of Ross' head, cradling his skull between her palms, and then Thaddeus Ross is screaming. In spite of her order to be still, he is screaming._

_\---_

Steve shuddered as the nightmare ripped through his brain. Screaming. In a red-black abyss. Pain. God, so much pain. An agony like limbs being torn slowly from a body isolated and alone. Violation after violation visited upon paralyzed flesh. A festering, reeking wound in the center of a swirling red eye of horror.

"No," he muttered. "No, no."

He shuddered again, his entire body quaking, and then there was a curl of white on the outer edge of his vision. His body and mind strived to reach it, that tiny ray of oblivion. Somehow he knew there was quiet inside the whiteness. Somehow he knew there was peace there.

It stayed out of reach for now. Just out of reach, and the agony continued. But he knew the quiet was there. His body knew. His mind knew. The thought kept him from simply giving in and letting himself die. The thought of peace. Of quiet. And the knowledge that he would have it soon. Very soon.

"Hey."

Steve shook, his hands curled into tight fists, his breath sobbed in and out of his mouth.

"Baby. Hey. Wake up."

_Baby?_

But…?

Steve struggled toward consciousness, shedding the nightmare like a snake shedding a skin, forcing his way up from those writhing, ebony depths. Baby? Had he _really_ heard that? Or was that just another part of the torture? Just another way to inflict pain?

There was a weight on him now. It wasn't much, just a little thing--a hand in his hair?--but it was there, and it was warm. Good. So very, very good. 

"Come on, baby. Come back to me."

Warm. Good.

Tony. 

Steve jerked awake. He winced at the twinge in his lower back. He was lying half on a bed, half on a chair. His hands clutched great handfuls of fabric--cheap, lightweight hospital blankets. Light years from the cloud-like 1000 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets Tony insisted on having in their bed. From the heavy, warm cocoon of the hand-made quilt that lay over-top those sheets. But it was there, it was _real._

And that weight--that hand in his hair--that was real too.

Steve raised his head a little, and the hand moved. It slipped through his hair to the base of his spine, then back up. Steve kept his eyes closed, afraid even now, that it wasn't as it seemed.

"Hey."

That voice.

"Hey, you."

Steve squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Not out of fear, but relief. That overwhelming, heart-soaring, peace-giving relief that encompassed him so completely at the sound of that scratchy, quavering, lovely, _perfect_ voice.

Eyes still closed, Steve took the hand from his hair, held it in his, brought it to his mouth, kissed the fingers, the palm, the forearm. He opened his eyes now, finally daring to look, and _Tony's_ eyes were there, that familiar, deep, whiskey brown, and Steve kissed Tony's bicep, his shoulder. He touched the arc reactor with gentle, reverent fingers while his lips found Tony's neck, his chin, his cheek, his forehead, and at last, his lips. He pressed his mouth to Tony's, and Tony's shaking hand rose to cup the back of his head and fist lightly in his hair for a second before falling back to the coverlet.

Steve pulled away. His eyes were shining, his tears already beginning to fall. Tony's lips curved up in a tiny, tired, happy smile. Steve took his hand and kissed his wrist again.

"Fuck you, Stark," he said.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "How'd our test go?" he whispered weakly. "Did we pass?"

Steve breathed out a laugh and shook his head. 

Only Tony.

" _We_ scheduled a re-take."

\---

"Ow!"

"Quit moving, Tony, I told you. Damn."

Tony rubbed his forehead. "You smack my head into the car door and you don't even say sorry? Some welcome home this is."

Steve grinned. He couldn't help it. He was almost giddy with happiness. Tony was home. Finally. Seventeen more days in the hospital after he'd woken up. Seventeen days, four hundred eight hours of alternating between painful cold-sweats, and a drug-induced delirium where Tony either spent the time waxing poetic to Steve about how much he loved him, or confiding in him about the tall, hot blond who came in to sit with him. "I don't know who he is, but I'd like to climb him like a tree."

"You would, huh?" Steve asked, a blush heating his cheeks. He hoped he was the only one Tony talked to like this when he was on his meds, but judging from the sly smiles the nurses gave him when he passed them in the hallways, he was not.

"Oh, hell, yeah. You should see this guy." Tony blinked, squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. "You're not so bad yourself. Who are you again?"

Seventeen days. Four hundred eight hours. Dozens of forms to fill out. Countless curse-words aimed at everyone from Doctor Strange, to Rhodey, to Bruce--but never the nurses. Tony was infinitely sweet to them--for not letting him work remotely from his bed. Two threats of divorce when Steve refused to just pack him up and spirit him away from this fucking room.

Steve thanked god for every one of them. Every day, every hour, every minute, every _second._

He even thanked god for the divorce-threats.

They made him laugh. 

Steve hitched him up in his arms a little, and kicked the car door closed behind him. "I'm sorry, Tony."

Tony glared at him. "Aren't you even going to kiss it better?"

"Maybe later."

Tony shifted in his arms. "Then grab my ass or something. Let me know you care."

"I care."

"Then grab my ass."

"Shut up, Tony," Steve said, but the grin was still on his face. Tony was heavy, squirmy like a puppy, complaining like a brat, but Steve had never been more happy to have all of those things held in his arms, bundled up against his heart. "At least let me get you inside first."

"Whose idea was this bridal-carry over the threshold, anyway?"

Steve fumbled for his keys, trying not to jostle Tony too much. "Gee. I wonder."

"Whoever it was should be shot."

Steve almost dropped his keys. "Jesus Christ, Tony," he said. The grin fell from his face and shattered on the ground at his feet.

Tony looked up at him. "Too soon?"

"It'll never _not_ be too soon for that."

Tony had not asked about Thaddeus Ross. He had not asked even after they saw a newsfeed about him being found wandering near a hospital in Wichita, incoherent, but with a small smile on his face. As if he were existing in a state of pure, easy quiet. He had not asked if Steve had anything to do with it. He had not asked, and Steve felt no real desire to tell him. 

They just let it go.

Tony put his hand on Steve's cheek and urged his face down until he could reach his mouth. He kissed him fervently. "I'm sorry, baby. You're right. I'm the worst."

Steve kissed him again, held him tighter against his chest. "You're not the worst," he whispered. "Just don't say that, okay? Please?"

"You got it. That goes in the never-joke-about-it-again file, 'kay?"

Steve nodded. "'Kay."

"Now will you grab my ass?"

Steve rolled his eyes, smiling a little again. "You should grab mine. You're the one apologizing."

"Onward, then, soldier. I can't reach from here."

"Maybe I was wrong," Steve said. "Maybe you are the worst."

Tony smiled up at him, and Steve's heart was lighter, heavier, brighter, darker. It beat in his chest like a thunder, and the sound of it in his ears was a name, just a name: Tony Tony Tony.

"You love me anyway, though, don't you?" Tony said, laying his head against Steve's chest, curling into his best guy, knowing he was in the arms of the one person who would always protect him, always take care of him, always do whatever needed to be done to make sure he was safe, come what may. 

Even if they never talked about it. 

"Yeah," Steve said, and turned the key in the lock. The door opened, and he stepped over the threshold, his whole life resting in his arms. "Yeah, I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this!! I hope it was worth coming back on this ride with me again. I've got one more story in mind. Just the one. It's going to take me a minute to write it because I really want to do it justice if I can. Look for it sometime in mid-March. Until then...i love you all, and thank you again!❤❤❤
> 
> Ps...theres a note that keeps showing up after this one. It's from about chapter 2, but I can't seem to get rid of it. Just ignore it for now. I've tried figuring it out, but I am not the sharpest kid sometimes and can't do it. Sorry!

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, the real angst starts next chapter. I'm still in the process of writing this thing, so I'm not entirely sure how this is going to go. I've got stuff brewing, it's just the getting it down on paper that needs to happen. Good luck, Me!
> 
> Title from the Counting Crows song.


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